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My dearest black book,
how I dare not touch
your gentle, white pages
and paint them red
with vivid, painful memories
that tear my heart open.
Photographs of friends
say I was once happy,
but those memories
are far and few between,
falling ever so bravely
across your book’s edge.
A pen tells me,
begs me to write,
but to write
is to relive.
A year came and went,
and you lie still,
closed to the world,
shot down by me
until I save you again,
my dearest black book.
Diary
By, Melissa R. Mendelson
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