Diary, you hold the unshed tears
and every word vomit that escapes me,
a frantic prayer for disclosure.
There is no solution, I know,
but to speak what you feel into being,
what a wondrous, terrifying relief.
We thrive on this release, I think,
yet reclusion offers its own solace—
a quiet space to untangle sorrow,
to hold it close, to let it live.
Yesterday, I felt the floodwaters rise,
the sting of tears,
and shut the gates tight.
Later, a strange anxiety washed over me,
a query into my own existence.
It was then I knew:
I had to feel my own feelings.
As the eldest, I learned to be stone,
the glue, the strong one.
I listened to every woe
while mine remained unspoken.
When the world bled, I was a quiet witness,
a problem-solver,
a map of escape.
Perhaps this is my burden, my lore—
the nurturer in need of nurturing,
the child who outran her own childhood.
Still, I know I will be okay.
I have lived in a place
where love was just a word,
and hope, a relic from the trenches.