Confessions of a diary.

The words are scratched into my pages,

My tear-stained pages are dog-eared, well-read.

The secrets I hold, I will never tell,

Because that will break her trust.

She always starts "Dear Diary…"

Like I could reply. Like

I could tell her how to make it better,

I can't, I can only help her vent.

My job is to hold information,

And only show her, no one else.

I know her fears, her upsets,

But I can't help her.

I keep my pages,

Locked to all but her.

This is my job,

This is my confession.