Apostrophe

 An apostrophe I wrote for my English class during our reading of Frederick Douglass’s narrative.

Addressed To My Mostly Empty Journal

I've known you for two tumultuous years, nearly three, and still have yet to fulfill you. To be honest, I couldn't be bothered at this point. You're a difficult thing, you know. You, dressed in your fancy wooden backing, you who has had at least fifteen imperfect pages torn from your insides. There's maybe ten pages that I've written on that I decided were good enough to keep inside of you. Maybe I'm not interesting enough, maybe you're too intimidating. I just always have to be good, profound, and I'm hardly ever that with you, I'm hardly ever that at all. I want you to be a commonplace, a safe space I come back to, a place to dump my stream of consciousness, but my own standards are simply too high. How do I let go, let loose? Maybe that's something I should consult you with. But I won't. Of course I won't. It's not interesting enough.

I have this thing where I have to dress up my wording and abstract it so intensely in order to convey what I'm actually feeling, in order to convey what I actually mean, but with you I don't think I'm supposed to do that. Truly, I don't actually know. What do people journal about? Everything and anything? I'd love to be one of those people who hold their journals close to their chest like their hair is the binding and their skin is the backing and their nails and teeth and organs are the pages, like they gave birth to it. I, unfortunately, don't seem to be one of those people. I'd like to be, for you. Tell me how to loosen my grip and unwrap the tight barbed wire around my hand. I'm asking you again, to tell me how to let go.

One day I will fill your pages with checklists and recountings of my day and schedules and reminders and the most confidential thoughts but until I can relax, you'll remain with your pages blank and my "story"—if you can call it that—untold.