The Diary
Tonight I read a diary, the words written in faded ink, the cover worn and tattered,
but still a feminine pink.
Pages of misspelled memories, sentences left incomplete, but the meaning oh
so bitter, of a young girl full of deceit.
I read every single sentence, every memory she had to tell. The bitterness and
happiness, she told her story well.
Through lines and lines of emotion, I read about her past. I read of long lost
innocence, and loves that didn't last.
I read of dreams that faded, wishes that never came true. Hopes she often
buried, and how her friends they had no clue.
The pages kept slowly turning, as she grew from year to year. As I watched her
innocence fade, I could almost taste her fear.
She made choices she didn't understand, only hoping they were right. She
learned the meaning of loyalty, but not without a fight.
I read of lost emotion, over the years she was taught to hate. I read of death and
sacrifice in a world she didn't create.
There were pages I noticed her hands shook, and smudges I know were tears.
As she told of drugs and anger, and fought to hide her fears.
Her pride in great abundance, she recorded every thing she did. As I read this
book of confession, I couldn't believe she was ever a kid.
At the end I wasn't reading, I was listening to what she said. I closed my eyes
and heard her voice, buried deep inside my head.
Her face appeared before me, and I see it every day. Every time I look in a mirror,
I still beg her to go away.
I slowly closed my diary, on a past I'll never forget. Of memories that will forever
haunt me, of an adolescence I'll forever regret.
Copyright © Victoria Connaway | Year Posted 2007
|