Poem: Trust

My stained diary lays open on my bed,

adorned with flowers 

the colors of the sky.

It looks like something my grandmother may own.

Perhaps a treasure, 

hidden away and forgotten,

amongst her crowded attic. 

My scent is woven into this book,

as the rosy perfume on my wrist 

grazes the paper

with each story I write.

It knows each of my deepest secrets,

the ones I could never said out loud

or to the people I am closest to.

I flip through the pages,

soft and worn.

It sits patiently on my shelf, 

waiting to be used.

A refuge for memories and thoughts 

otherwise forgotten. 

But how can I put more trust

in an object

than in those I love?