Sylvia plath’s journal is filled with pure poetry while my journal is just me whining…

“Now I'll never see him again, and maybe it's a good thing. He walked out of my life last night for once and for all. I know with sickening certainty that it's the end.”

“Yet I liked him too much - - - way too much, and I ripped him out of my heart so it wouldn't get to hurt me more than it did.”