My writing is back on track.
But it is from depressing circumstances.
My mother got onto me yesterday. Turning into a rabid, animalistic freak yesterday...
"WHAT IS YOUR PROBLEM?!"
"YOU?! I'VE TOLD YOU OVER AND OVER AGAIN! IT'S YOU!"
This is just a snippet from the scene we had in my room as she held me against the wall with my wrists, digging her nails.
Then she stole my notebook. The one with all of my paintings in it.

Last night, she broke me.
She tore out my lungs and forced me to choke. She slashed my wrists and didn't even see the blood seeping through.

Because of her, I am tattered and ashamed. 

But I refuse to be her play-with-when-angry toy again.

I will get away, somehow.
I just can't be a coward about it.