Notebook

You told me you’ll be my notebook.

No one’s ever told me that before.  I’ve tried to journal, I’ve tried to blog, I’ve tried telling friends, I’ve tried keeping things to myself.  I lose interest in journals.  Blogs feel too public.  Telling friends is just like scattering pieces of myself around to be disregarded, criticized, vaguely understood, ignored.  If I keep things to myself, it’s as if I’m not saying anything at all.  

You are the perfect notebook for me.  When I say that I can tell you anything, and know that you won’t judge or dislike me, I mean it with all of my being.  I’ve told you my darkest secrets.  I really have.  Each one, you’ve accepted graciously, no matter how horrible.  You still love me.  You still care about me.  You still kiss me and tell me I’m beautiful, and that I mean the world to you.  You don’t think I’m dirty.  You don’t think I’m tainted, or damaged.  You see me for who I really am, no matter how s****y and broken that may be, and that makes me love you more than seems humanly possible.