“Dear Diary,”… she writes rather than type, the tactile feel is comforting to her when she feels so low. It looks like ink but she writes in blood and tears, recounting all the years of pain.
She signs her name with the date and states the same phrase; “Thank you for listening diary, and thank you for never telling. “
Years later in life a beaten house wife she types late at night into chat rooms and message boards, looking for the advice that will change her life, but it never does.
Further into the days she starts to gray and her eyes look to the ground. Pieces of hope float in memories of youth, and in the stories told in books, but she never looks to tomorrow.
Still she writes, her husband has died and she must compose the requiem. she must write about how much he meant to her, home much strength her lent to her in the hard times. She must say she misses him, and she knew him like the back of her hand, but it was the back of his she always saw.
So now she types and cries. To be in church and to tell such lies, crumbles her back further and she prays for god to take her away and change her life. No clouds part nothing splits the seas, and with a paper full of lies in her hand she stands in black and with a quivering voice she takes her life back.
I miss him like I miss pain; I miss the concept of love he took away. I knew him well, the way he would yell at strike when his meal or affection wasn’t done just right. And family and friends started to cry not for the parted man but the dead womyn breaking down.
It took an entire life to rise, and it took her just one child hood to fall. The last night of her life she bent back a page in her plain white diary and wrote. Dear diary I’m free, I’m finally free.