You tell me all your secrets.
You don't know me,
but I know you.
I listen silently as you
pour yourself out to me.
You scratch your essence
on my essence.
You embed your life
into my life.
When you need to record something for someone
you rip a part of me
from myself
scrawling haphadardly
on the page that used to be mine.
You don't know that I feel it,
but I do.
You don't mean it when you call me
"dear diary"
Your thoughts are what you hold dear,
your inner-life on my insides.
I dread the day when my capacity
to hold your secrets
reaches its end.
Will you burn me
to keep your privacy
private?
Will you tear me (apart)
then rip me (to shreds)?
Or will you place me
(lovingly)
on a shelf
Satisfied
that I hold
the gold
that is your inner life?
I long for the day, when
curious to reimmerse yourself
in the person you used to be,
you pick me
up and rustle through the leaves
which are my pages.
Where you have inked
your soul on mine.
You don't know me.
But I know you.
I know you.
