I have been writing in a journal on an almost-daily basis since I was 17 years old. This is a record of me going through each entry from the beginning, and commenting on the me from fifteen years ago.

If life were graded, it would receive an F.

[On borders]

look around, can’t you see?

save me

all so superficial

If this journal entry were graded, it would get an incomplete. I’d tell myself to see me after class. Then I’d sit myself down and say, ‘I notice you’ve been a bit morose lately. How about you try leaving the house.’ Then I’d hand myself some black lipstick and tell myself that if I’m going to be a goth twat on the inside, I may as well be one on the outside too.