Caught by surprise with one of my books open in your hands.
It took me a minute to realize it wasn't just any book, but my journal.
The one Dad bought me from the Smythson Shop on Bond Street in London.
The one with the flowers on the cover and leather tipped corners.
I was the cat and you the mouse:
I leapt to my bookshelves to assess the damage, you scurried out in a blur.
I felt violated in the worst way, unsure of what you'd read;
or what your intentions were.
First I got hot, then cold, then goosebumps and sweat covered me.
I had to get out. Away. My words were stolen, my private thoughts, pieces of me.
Dreams, fears and doubts all splayed out for you to see, to snicker and laugh at.
I threw my journal in my backpack and went to the library.
My steps sent the cockroaches running in droves across the sidewalk.
I shuddered thinking of the ones hovering above me, hidden in the old oak trees.
I chose a desk in the corner by the window and threw my things on the floor.
I opened my journal and re-read the last few pages as waves of nausea washed over me.
Too dangerous to write anymore. Too stupid. Too vulnerable.
What did you see?
When the librarians kicked me out, I trudged home,
Back to the scene of the crime. My deepest thoughts spattered
Like blood all over the walls of my room, the floor...
When I got back you were waiting for me
With a bunch of wildflowers you'd picked.