The Thing About Diary-ing

At fell of dark, when children sleep, I tortured college-lined notebooks

with incontinent feels.  Brain-flooding at dark was inevitable after that

final fail.  The word-tablet which I'd picked up for pennies at Goodwill,

sported an image of Kiss with Hotter Than Hell written underneath. 

Irony?  I spewed letters out the fucked-upatorium of my throat onto

those lines, hoping the old lady in the lower apartment wouldn't hear. 

Thinking back, she was near deaf, but there was no way to stop this

runaway train. The thing about documenting your feelings is    when

you reread the sentiment, word by word, reality comes back at you,

throws you against a cement wall, leaving you on grassy ground where

psycho squirrels will eat you.  While they're feasting on your entrails, you

may see the eyeballs of your neighbor by the hedge.  Squirrels are

mental when it comes to eyeballs.

.

I ceased diary-ing. 

(I started writing a journal months after my daughter died of SIDS)