I started collecting secrets at the age of six years old. Not that I knew what was happening, it just became a part of me. Become someone who knew something about everyone. The power it gave me wasn't a way of life I'd learn to use until ten years later; the dangerous age of sixteen. When my word would be torn upside down and the secrets were one way I could get my life back to 'normal' or so I thought.

The young girl looking back wasn't the person, from so many years ago. The soft pink walls behind and window open let in the smell of summer that filled my room. A place of pain, now, as secrets are a part of a person, me, and the ability to change a life; my life. 

 I just wrote this today but been thinking of it for quite sometime. It's the start to a story that has been building in me for months. I was once told I use the word 'I' to much. Been working on cutting back on using it and trying to writing using different words that mean the something. 'I' isn't the only word I've been trying to use less but I can say that I actually like this little bit to this story, I believe its going to be a good story to plant in twins and turns.