dear diary,

i love (see also: fear*anxiety*doubt) divulging my secrets into the 
black, wide expanse of the internet
it's so crowded, it feels anonymous
like shouting out something in times square
everyone is mostly focused on themselves
and their own experience, so the only ones
who notice are the ones looking (hi--if you are)

also, though... ever since i was young
i've craved being read, being known
i wrote my diary's with the hope--honestly?
practically the naive expectation--that
they would be read
that others would care enough to want
to know my thoughts and point of view
on my experience in the world

i've long said
to be known, fully--that's love
the act of the effort and attention poured into
gaining that knowledge--that's the act of love

and 

i know how important and formative 
it was for me to discover emily dickinson's words
on a page--speaking to me decades later
on a lonely bed in Gorizia

how profound it was to read bukowski
just blocks from where he wrote it 
in LA

to discover rupi kaur in a barnes and noble
not knowing her words would be holding my hand
not a month later during the heartbreak of my first
devastating break-up

people who write truthfully of their experiences?
that's been a lifeline for me--an antidote to the 
overwhelmingly mundane surface talk of everyday

so, i write my truth
i put it out in the world in my own little way
like bread crumbs
hoping someday the right people will find 
these words and they will mean something 
to them