The very utterance of the word makes my heart patter like hunting dog on the trail, eager to find something and just slow down for once. 

The words never left my mouth, no matter how many times they scraped up my throat and made residence in my bloated cheeks. 

Would anyone believe me?

Who would care?

Everyone knows of the smiling girl. I see her in the mirror everyday. I like to believe she's me sometimes. 

Because everyone else thinks she is. 

But that girl in the mirror is the mask I put on, a reflection of what I'd like to be without this secret

But Secret Girl is me. 

Secret Girl cannot get out of bed some days and has to frame a stomach bug instead of the war battling inside her head. 

Secret Girl has many day dreams of taking pills or walking off a tall building, but feels more guilty for wasting thoughts on something she's too chicken to do than the actual nature of it. 

Secret Girl doesn't realize that weird confidence boosts, unusual chatter, and reckless spending, all work out into a diagnosis that many have told her she doesn't have. 

To test that theory could reveal her secret. 

Bipolar Disorder. 

The worst part is, there's a small chance she's just-

I'm just-

A little fucked up and there's nothing I can do about it. 

I never loved you.

There, I said it. I never loved you. You go out there, and play the victim of a heartless vixen, but remember that you were the fool, not me.

It was always for the writing. Page after page of your thoughts, your feelings, you, just ready for me to take. The way the strings of light from the window hit your face in the early morning. The conversation between you and your sister and the way you lit up at the mention of her visiting us. The clearest tears, so innocent and forlorn, streaming down your face as you left the house.

I loved to write about you.