No Spit Stars Required 

My Journal's Unconditional Love

MY DEAR JOURNAL, you open to me when the world closes. A world where the intimacy of pen and paper have been lost to typing that’s all thumbs. You invite streams of consciousness to flow unexpectedly, accidentally, and with abandon. 

When I am sad, you catch my tears on your blue lines, like a net catches a fallen trapeze artist. When I am joyful, you let me play in your red-lined margins, tattooing you with silliness.

You bear, without complaint, amputations of your pages. The ones holding my weak attempts at poetry or artwork, the ones whose existence remind me of my shortcomings. I rip them from your spine, and like a mother caring for her child, you give freely to protect my ego. You welcome the paper-fringed ghosts who remain. No questions. No judgement.

So different from the dull teachers collecting school papers from finger-pinching binders. They held the power to build or destroy self-worth with a stroke of a red pen or the placement of a spit-moistened star next to your name.

But in your pages, Dear Journal, blue-lined horizons and red margins love me unconditionally. You are my teacher now. You help me maintain a healthy self-esteem. No spit stars required.