Dear Diary,
Do you ever think about the time I named you Whit after a drummer in a never-known early 90s metal band? Or the time when you had pink pages and a faulty lock and the defense attorney held you and read my bubbly handwriting from your pink pages so I burned you in a pot on the porch?
You were Joey once, with blue pages and lines too close together and then I went through the phases were you were The Moon Book and The Book of Roses and The Book of Nowhere. Remember when I only wrote in you with red ink? I burned cigarette holes through your pages alongside the burns to my arm.
Do you remember the online diary site where we played a stained princess? So many romance stories begun and tossed aside. I printed them all out and three hole punched the pages. I keep them in a floppy three ringed binder.
Do you remember the decade I left you behind? The Decomposition Books that followed, into which I’ve stuffed the past seven years?
Let’s start hanging out here.
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