d is for diary,
my epic in pink marker pens
Back when there wasn't internet we wrote letters to each other, seven pages of foolscap covered in large, halting words that meant maybe marriage because we've known each other since forever. Then he ran out of stamps and envelopes but I pasted everything in my diary anyway and decorated them with flowers in the border because our past is prettier than his handwriting.
Now he's back in my life but he's changed, nowadays he laughs at hearts doodled in literature notebooks and he scribbles Eminem lyrics in slanting blue ink. I want to scream how could you but instead I write it down a thousand times, admissions of reality in between letters that I wrote in reply to his. I remember every word he never said and it almost warms my heart then I remember that everything is written with the same pen.
Sometimes I leave the diary (baby blue & decorated with glitter) lying around, I hope he reads it and I hope he cares enough to, because then I'll stand framed by the doorway and say real nasty, didn't your mother tell you snooping was rude, but I remember his mother and she's great really because when I went to his house to play in preschool she brought out homemade cookies.
Twenty thousand words now and not a single for myself.