I wish I was strong, like my brother
and had paper white skin, like my sister.
I am smart, but not strong
I am brave, but not beautiful
I am different, and that's okay
Too bad that's wrong
Collette's writing was mostly poems. It wasn't a diary, nothing had a date or title, but it became painfully obvious that she wrote as she was feeling a certain way.
The darkness is lighter when you can not see it.
Sometimes she just wrote sentences, albeit they had no meaning to me. The more I read, the more I felt as though reading this was worse than a diary. A diary was something personal, someone's day to day, and feelings. This spoke from the unconscious mind, as though Collette herself at the time didn't know its meaning, but I kept reading anyway.
When will I see the autumn train?
The train has not come and I fear it is late
I see others get onboard, but my train is never comes
I witness an endless spring, haunted by past winters
But I can not join the passenger's on their trains
my ticket has and hasn't expired yet
That one was lost on me, but I feel like it was my favorite.
Bodies, thin and bony.
Minds, devoid of hope
Bodies, burnt and lifeless
Lungs no longer breathing
Mother's while and children cry
Victory is his, but she wants to die
I decided to stop reading, but that was just one book out of a box full of them.