i was once the well-worn book at your
bedside,
and then i was the last chapter
of the book you were afraid to
finish.
now i am a dusty journal,
hidden away with lock and key.
you do not know what to do with me.
i hold your memories
your secrets
your fear and your desire
if you did not want me
printed on the back of your mind,
you should not have filled me with your words
or stained my pages
with your touch.
you wrote these words, darling,
in fountain pen;
i cannot be erased.
you will not throw me out
you will not burn me
you will not rip my pages
you will never forget me.