These are the things I never told you.

Sometimes I wish I was free
My head is clearer without you
Yet my shitty heart is relieved when you come home

You are extreme
I can’t find safe middle ground
Destroy me by day, adore me by night

Before you came I was alone
I had control and a good life
Now I’m yours, everything I touch fucks up



The clock is moving so fast, the numbers flicking past like cars on the motorway. Why can’t I move? Outside the window I can see the parents run to school, then the children flood the streets, but it’s all so quick. Fast-forwarded. I can’t move. People walk so fast they blur, leaving an imprint of their bodies in the air behind them.
Isn’t someone wondering where I am? Time is going so quickly, how long have I been stuck here for? Am I dead? The sky is getting dark, clouds flitting across the sky like birds. The clock is racing. It’s 9pm, 10, 11, midnight. The moon rises. I feel like I’m in syrup – every move takes so much effort, I’m exhausted. What would happen if I fell asleep? What if I woke up and one hundred years had passed?
The stars flicker. The trees vibrate. What’s going on? Why won’t anyone help me? The minutes go by quicker than nanoseconds. The moon sets, the sky becoming lighter – the inky black being watered down and then so quickly I almost miss it, the glorious gold before the sun rises. Then the fiery ball jumps up, flies through the sky. It’s eight, nine, ten in the morning.
I struggle against my invisible bonds, straining and pulling, but nothing gives. I’m so tired. Am I invisible? No-one is coming for me. The clock mocks me, the numbers flashing past so quick. Midday. Midnight. What’s the difference? Why can’t I move? Who did this to me?
I push at my bonds, one last time, a final surge of anger and fury and desperate fear. My energy leaks from me like water. My muscles groan and creak. Clouds chase each other across the sky. The sun sets.
I sleep.


Dear World,Roger Hargreaves

I hate being clever, and this in itself is wrong. If you’re clever you should be happy, you should be respected, you should help those that aren’t – and those that aren’t should be in turn helped to improve.

When I find that I dislike being clever, there has to be something going wrong somewhere. Why is it that I feel like I would be happier at (private school)? I know that I would end up being a nerd, but there I would be normal. I would be average. I wouldn’t be best in class and I wouldn’t hate it like I do here.

It’s not fair. I want to do my best but I don’t want to be teased and bullied for it. I want to feel happy with my achievements and not embarrassed. I really, really hate being ashamed of getting A stars. I hate it when people go, ‘Oh, I bet you got an a star’ and you have to agree, and they go all snotty on you. I hate it.

Something is wrong if I feel this way, and if others do too, then something should be done. Now.