Apr 2014
Late Night Writing:
I am a journal
I am a journal. Those around me are the writers. They come to me with stories to tell.
She comes to me to write about her, the girl she loved, the one she’s not quite over and the one that’s not quite over her, she writes about her family life sometimes too. She comes around seldom, not quite sure if my pages will be read by others, or if they will keep our secrets. He writes about his past love, the one that didn’t work out, the one before me that he’s not quite over, the one that left him broken, with issues I cannot help him solve, she is the one who moved on and left him behind. He comes to me at 3 am, often after a night of drinking, sometimes not, and I am there my pages ready. She comes to me often, at many times of the day, and she has written many stories. Some of which I never did want to hear. She writes about boys, not men, they are immature, not deserving of her time, her pain or her love. I know this, but she has yet to realize it. She comes to me often, to tell me about the boys who are talking to her, the ones she responds to although she never really wanted to talk to them anyway, and I can’t help but wonder why she does this. She writes about one boy in particular, the one that really broke her heart; the one she’s still not over, the one she spends hours on before a party in hopes of making him jealous.
Like a journal I have no words to say, seldom any responses to give, and if I do they are weak. Instead I listen, I let them vent, I let them spew onto me their self-loathing and I soak in every inch of it, like paper gulps down every drop of ink. I carry their self-hate with me; I absorb it into my skin so they don’t have to carry it. This is all I can do for them. I have never experienced true heart break. No one has ever loved me, I have only loved others. No one has ever left me; because I have never been anyone’s to leave. I have no way of offering advice, so instead I let them pour out their feelings, I soak them up, I hold them in for them, I lessen their burden, assure them that everything will be okay, and then they leave. And I am left there, alone, so full with self- hatred, some my own, some of it theirs that I am ready to burst.
There is little room left in me, my pages are running low. Soon, I will be full, soon, I will be left unable to absorb any more, unable to let those around me use me as a journal, soon, I will be unable to help those who need me the most. Soon, I will become useless, people will stop coming to me, people will leave, and then what will be of me, but a journal full of hatred and a saturated sponge?
I am a journal
I am a journal. Those around me are the writers. They come to me with stories to tell.
She comes to me to write about her, the girl she loved, the one she’s not quite over and the one that’s not quite over her, she writes about her family life sometimes too. She comes around seldom, not quite sure if my pages will be read by others, or if they will keep our secrets. He writes about his past love, the one that didn’t work out, the one before me that he’s not quite over, the one that left him broken, with issues I cannot help him solve, she is the one who moved on and left him behind. He comes to me at 3 am, often after a night of drinking, sometimes not, and I am there my pages ready. She comes to me often, at many times of the day, and she has written many stories. Some of which I never did want to hear. She writes about boys, not men, they are immature, not deserving of her time, her pain or her love. I know this, but she has yet to realize it. She comes to me often, to tell me about the boys who are talking to her, the ones she responds to although she never really wanted to talk to them anyway, and I can’t help but wonder why she does this. She writes about one boy in particular, the one that really broke her heart; the one she’s still not over, the one she spends hours on before a party in hopes of making him jealous.
Like a journal I have no words to say, seldom any responses to give, and if I do they are weak. Instead I listen, I let them vent, I let them spew onto me their self-loathing and I soak in every inch of it, like paper gulps down every drop of ink. I carry their self-hate with me; I absorb it into my skin so they don’t have to carry it. This is all I can do for them. I have never experienced true heart break. No one has ever loved me, I have only loved others. No one has ever left me; because I have never been anyone’s to leave. I have no way of offering advice, so instead I let them pour out their feelings, I soak them up, I hold them in for them, I lessen their burden, assure them that everything will be okay, and then they leave. And I am left there, alone, so full with self- hatred, some my own, some of it theirs that I am ready to burst.
There is little room left in me, my pages are running low. Soon, I will be full, soon, I will be left unable to absorb any more, unable to let those around me use me as a journal, soon, I will be unable to help those who need me the most. Soon, I will become useless, people will stop coming to me, people will leave, and then what will be of me, but a journal full of hatred and a saturated sponge?
