Journal of a Juvenile

Faded pages and smeared ink. Tears that have long since dried have run through lines that penned the pain of an adolescent girl in charcoal and lead. Folded edges and tiny crinkles of confetti that clung on from pages ripped out in fear, anger, repression, mistrust, and doubts. Lyrical lines and thoughtful essays of the days that made up your youth. You left me as discarded and abandoned as you once felt. Or possibly still do.

There were so many things you used to trust me with. Desires and hopes. Dreams and ambitions. Half truths and entire lies. Well, not to me, at least. The secrets you never shared, even with your closest friends, were our source of bonding. You knew I’d never tell anyone, if given the choice. Sure, I couldn’t hide the words, but once that cover closed my lips were sealed.

The way you held me often portrayed how the world was handling you. On good days, you danced me around the room before gently laying me open to begin a tale of two pairs of lips meeting ever so gently for the 1st time in your life. On bad days, I was literally thrown into some dark drawer and avoided because of a harsh punishment doled out. I understood the injustices you bore as you leaned in to tell me about frustrations; ink bleeding the pain of those unkind words that bitch from second period uttered about your skin or hair. If I could’ve spoken back, I would’ve told you she tore you down because of her insecurities. You, were perfectly you. You were enough, especially for me.

I wanted to kill that man who used to isolate you from the world, pretending to love you. Those nights, and some days, when he would get you alone so he could admire your early development? His touches and kisses giving your confused, young body surges of pleasure that made you feel seen but dirty … desired but ashamed? I hope he rotted behind bars because of your courage, and didn’t get the chance to abuse any other young girls. Or, if you couldn’t find the courage, I hope you don’t blame yourself. You were the child. I wish you had known that you didn’t owe anyone anything to call you beautiful. I hope you grew up and learned it in time.

You never finished telling me about how you fared after all the loss you suffered. Your friend, the poor young, boy who was murdered … I still grieve for you. Did you ever find a healthy way to deal with that? I know your mom was awfully upset when you carved his name into her chair- that wasn’t the best way to handle things. She was right to punish you. But I remember her unwavering support in the wake of that tragedy. She held your hand as you entered that church to say your final farewell. I hope you got the comfort and support you needed for all the things you endure by the tender age of 12. You used to have me, but who do you have now?

I remember how much change and upheaval happened, even after those things. That scary bout with anorexia, the birth of your nephew…your grandmother’s illness? Those all took a lot of you. Having your greatest foe and friend collapse in your kitchen on a school night? Your poor mother waking you to help load your grandmother into the car, hospital bound, scared the stroke would rob this world of her. That was rough. I know grandma was never the same, but how many years did you get with her? How much love and devotion did your family put into caring for her well-being? I only ask, because you stopped writing about it. Maybe it weighed on your heart so much, it sapped you of the energy to pick up a pen.

I remember the moment things changed for us. It was when I let some of the secrets slip. It wasn’t my fault! Truly! I am so sorry that your mother found me, read me, and threatened to take you to therapy. I was supposed to be your therapy. Let’s face it- the 90’s were not kind to those who needed mental help. It was even less kind to young women of color, raised by a generation who was big on the “do as I say, not as I do.” Or raised by women who didn’t tolerate weakness. Everyday, you got up and faced the world, just trying to survive without tears. Suffering in silence to make everyone else around you that much more comfortable. I was supposed to be the one, safe space where you could cry. Your vulnerabilities, your fears, your failures- they were supposed to be healed one line at a time. So, I understood when you tore those incriminating pages from my binding. I would’ve done it myself to save you from the horror of the unknown. I let you down, and I could feel it.

The poems you began writing were beautiful. The short stories dazzled me. All the moments of creativity that were sparked from your wonderful imagination? Art and excellence, indeed. You’ve always had your talent, even when you were unable to nurture it the way you wanted to. I’m sorry that you felt make-believe was the only way you could tell your stories. But boy, do you have the stories to tell. How many other lucky books have you filled with your brilliance? Tons, I’m sure.

I know, I became less necessary when technology began taking off. I remember watching jealously as you set up your first Dell computer, purchased with your own money. You barely had time to look at me, let alone use me. I had become a novel idea. A relic of childhood. But you’d visit with me occasionally. And when you did, the more mature and deeply felt words you penned soothed me. You still knew how to make me feel special. I existed for those times. It’s what I was made for.

The words you left behind are still here. A little bit of your innocence and optimism, too. Those tiny glimpses into a mature, yet underdeveloped, young woman, with all the makings of a futuristic, beautiful, successful woman. I wish you could see yourself through my eyes. I wish I could hug that damaged, but strong, little girl and tell her that she is worthy. Worthy of love, forgiveness, and kindness. Time waits for no man, but me? I’d wait for her forever. I loved her for who she was, and I love her for all she’ll become.