Dear Diary
You used to be my diary
well maybe just my journal
in a diary you write your truest, deepest confessions
or so I’ve gathered
whereas I etched the truest, deepest that I could muster
not the same
but for me, certainly something
somewhere along the way
I couldn’t locate on a map where
or on a calendar when
your pages ceased to be blank
the ink of my confessions would seep through
and my journal began to question not only “why?” but “how?”
“how can you feel this now when you thought that then?”
I used to write freely
pages unto pages
for the most part, unrestrained
I wouldn’t flip back to read the last entry
each writing session would begin anew
snapped from my craft, I suddenly feel I have no business calling myself a writer at all
snapped back to my shyness
thinking has resumed
overthinking not far behind
I try to compulsively edit before I scrawl even a line
you must think I’ve given up entirely
whereas I feel I’m trying, perhaps harder than before
just not on your pages
they too have become unsafe
