Your Journal

You called me your journal, and it’s starting to make sense.

When we met, you pried my cover open and sketched your name inside.

The words you inscribed are forever on my mind.

I’m the bearer of the secrets, and your crazy mindset.

I used to be content, before I became this object.

Although I never gave my consent, I thought you would respect.

I used to lay by you in bed as you wrote down your life, now I’m on the shelf, watching you swoon your soon-to-be wife.

You called me your journal, and it’s starting to make sense. I was never actually in your life, but yours will always be locked in mine.