Letters from the Girl I Buried

Prologue

This was never supposed to be read. These words were meant to live and die on paper, hidden beneath Sharpie strokes and buried under boxes in the back of my closet. I wasn’t the girl with a glittery journal who wrote down memories like they were treasures. I was the girl who needed blank pages as an escape hatch. A place to pour every thought, every hurt, every complaint I couldn’t say out loud.

Once the words were out, I couldn’t just leave them there, exposed. Too dangerous. Too vulnerable. Toome.So I’d take a black marker and strike through anything that felt like evidence, names, secrets, feelings too sharp for daylight. Then I’d fold the paper, shove it deep somewhere dark, or literally bury it. And for a long time, I thought that was the end of the story.

But here’s the truth: nothing you bury stays buried forever.

I’m bold enough to write what most people are too afraid to say. I’m shy enough to second-guess every word after I write it. And I’m overemotional enough to cry while blacking out a sentence that only I’ll ever see. That’s who I am, a contradiction with a pen.

These letters are messy. Some are sharp and angry. Some are soft and trembling. Some read like code because I was terrified of being too clear, and some are stripped bare because I was too exhausted to hide. They are the pieces of me I once tried to erase, but I’m learning that erasing doesn’t heal. Speaking does.

So here I am, unearthing the words I buried.

Some of these pages will sound like confessions. Some will sound like prayers. Some will sound like screams. But every single one is mine, and now, they’re yours too.

This is me, brave, messy, honest. These are my letters.

Welcome to my Blackout Confessions.