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
But how can I put more trust
in an object
than in those I love?