In my room, there is a book
I keep it hidden on the shelf.
I take careful note to ignore it
Every time I pass it by.
This book chooses to draw me in
When it knows I’m feeling better.
It whispers to me through its voice of ink
It says, “come closer”
“Just read for a bit”
It won’t take long
To travel down memory lane.
I tend to fall victim to this book,
For its author is my very own self.
It is my journal from what seems like long ago,
But really, it’s barely been a year.
All it takes is a scan of those pages
And I am Dante, transported to hell
For my mind remembers all too well
Writing those words that were the embodiment
Of the chaos writing, writhing! In my mind.
With its devious flowers and decorative leaves
Is Pandora’s box reincarnated
For in it I spewed his evil
From his mouth, to my mind, to those pages.
And all it takes is my finger
Running over the words,
Cracking open the binding.
I have created something beyond my control.
I must hide it better next time.