The Diaries

The Diaries

They are all that’s left

From a scattered, shattered childhood


In twenty-six tortuous volumes

In living color

Of what happened to me




The Diaries

From age twelve to seventeen

Are there any more tumultuous years in a child’s life?

The brutal ignorance

Of the ugliest of truths

It was all I knew




The Diaries


Reading them now

Forty-five years later

Determined to get through them

After several attempts in the past

This is my past

And I must do this

To heal?

Must I?




The Diaries


Day to day

Hour by hour

Of minutiae

Full of angst

Even some joy

But mostly pain

Was it really that awful?

Yes, indefensibly, it was.




The Diaries


A living, breathing record

Of the truth

I can only do small snippets

Then I must take a break

To recover

Before I move on to the next pages

Of what in the actual the fuck?

This is how it all went down?




The Diaries


They follow me

They haunt me

They hurt me

They are me




The Diaries


Don’t you dare try to change the narrative

It’s all there

They define me

Ugliness, pain, and truth




The Diaries

Bury them with me when I die.

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