Dear Journal
I still remember when we first met. I was seven years old , and it was Christmas time. My mother, brother and I had just moved into a new shelter. You where my gift. You where small, and green, and there was a laminated decoration of roses all over the front and back. You looked like a door. You had a silver lock on the right side of you and it dangled off the side. I had two tiny keys to open you up. You where my secret. My mother couldnt even get in. I opened you up to the first page, and it said This Journal Belongs to .....You had a line for me to write my name. You belonged to me. Dear Journal, where my first words to you, but to me it was more than an introduction, it was a weight off my chest that I had been carrying for too long. It was the first place I felt like I could really unpack my stuff. You where my home when I didnt feel at home at home. You had questions in the back of you. Like whats my favorite color? and who is my best friend? You even had a space for me to put my friends names and their interests. I would tell you about how my mum just doesnt get it. I would tell you about my first crush at summer camp. I would tell you about the day my friend chose a new friend because she was cooler than me. Eventually the lock hinge loosened and it didnt matter if I locked the little silver lock. I got new journals, bigger ones, without locks, and with more pages. Journals that didnt ask who it belongs to. Journals that didnt ask about my favorite color, or my hobbies. I had leather bound journals, and journals with tassles. They got to know me too. I told them about my dreams and goals, and what makes me cry. I told them sometimes I'm not sure if I want to live. I made excuses for men that didnt love me. I wrote prayers. I wrote complaints. You where always there, no matter the form. Whenever I open my journal I become that seven year old girl , full of secrets, leaning against the shelter wall, giddy with joy, opening her new journal, her new safe space, her new home.
