this journal met me when i hurt.
i took it out of my bag with shaky hands
breathed ice on each page
and wrote each word
detached
separate
(and tired,
*******
i was so tired).

this journal felt
my 3am bloodstains
in every pen stroke.
it watched me close my eyes
and furrow my brow
and saw just exactly how
lost I was
in the fog
(much too lost for poetry logs
and remembering historic dates).

and you can be sure
that every pencil tip that broke
against this journal’s lined sheets
shook
like some sort of sign shooting
from my heart, an electric line routing
through my fingertips
and into the graphite,
allowing me to hear the soft
crack
of the lead
and recognize
somewhere in my foggy head
that we were the same,
me and Number 2.
apply enough pressure?
we both snap in two.