half written journals

Agendas and notebooks. Planners and literature.
Spring cleaning, just the norm. But I open them up to see if there's anything worthy of keeping, maybe to discover forgotten secrets.
Bubbly curve-y handwriting, some skinny, some loopy, some like scared trees standing off to the side of roads, and others like little boys and girls in love.
In the coffee notebook has a to-do list of everyday homework and things to purchase. The handwriting changes based on my mood, colorful pens, occasionally black or blue. They scream out the high school life. At the top, some quotes that inspired me at that moment. Maybe a pep line with my name, making sure whoever peeps at the notebook knows that I am a person with attitude and confidence. Well, I try to make them feel that way. Then random recipes or check-lists of makeup. I tear them all out. I don't want to see it again.
Grasping the ends of the fringes still left in the thin metal spirals, I tug at them ferociously. Making sure the memories are left hurt, making sure they know what they've done to me.
The light pink notebook is next. The one from staples. The one covered with shreds of metallic orange 5Gum wrapper over the bar-code.
I open it up, and I see my airy side in the notebook. It's contents- European literature. Something curvy something soft, I had enjoyed the subject. The notes decorated beautifully, something shy about them. The way the curves hide behind each other as they lace my words, and the running dots and lines that run to hide whenever a stranger reads the notebook. The way the pink highlighter is ashamed of it's bright presence.
I flip through the pages, amused by the doodles. They're really cute. Little people grab onto their pet bears as they dangle from moons and stars.
At the edges of a few sheets stick light blue 3cm Japanese page markers. A snicker-doodle recipe sits at the end of the entries.
I pile both notebooks together and hide them under the large yellow envelope covered with doodles from last week.
I don't want to look back.
The trashcan and the torn papers plead for a way back. Disgusted I push them further down.
Impulsive, indecisive, spontaneous. I am bipolar. I am not. I hate my past, and I am ashamed of myself.