100-Word Challenge: Diaries, To Keep or Not to Keep?

Journaling fills me with tremendous trepidation. I have five journals started in nooks and crannies. When I was young, my locked diary was cream-colored. My kids found it covered in socks, promptly picked, then giggled at mommy’s middle school yearnings. Sometimes I rant and vent and write about fictitious events. Other times, secrets.

Might be from a Reese Witherspoon movie, but I imagine being in the bathtub, eyes closed, sunk up to my chin in bubbles, when someone comes in waving my journal. I feel panic, helplessness and violation simultaneously. 

It hasn’t happened. Yet. It’s all too vulnerable though.

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In which we write 100 words using the prompt "Diary" thanks to Tara at Thin Spiral Notebook. I started two other entries, but, of course, they were too vulnerable ;-).

Tell Me How to Feel and I Will: 100 Word Challenge

I’m lost, biding

the switch flip telling 

me to feel

Recognizable like my 

lips brushing yours 

breathing down my

neck hair raising, like 

salty rivulets as

your sweat dripping

between my breast

Or tempered glass 

withholding desiring

peering

to see more

clearly more you more

everything

un-everything

Pulled hair

bitten lips filthy

dirt under our nails

And secrets buried

deep dark eyes

for whose or

those who were keen

or know

Shhhhhhhh

They're 

tricks or truths

map me

a forest for my

teeth to chew

them

echoing rushes, you

feel my pulse.

What are the contents 

of another’s words?

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In cleaning out the content's of my phone's notepad, I found a few poems I wrote many moons ago. This one seemed an all right fit, despite the need to edit out fifty words, for Thin Spiral Notebook's 100-word prompt. The word is "telling" to be used or implied.

Give it a whirl. It is a blast!

I Tried To Ply Him With Wine

So I plied my husband with wine last night with the express intent of garnering any information I could with regard to the before mentioned trip on which we are to depart next week. (Did you know I just used “with” three times in this sentence? Best to pull out my Thesaurus next time I come to write.) 

You see, he has this cute little thing he does when he’s hiding something or telling a white lie. It is a smirk along with the slightest flaring of his nostrils. It is a never fail, telltale sign. (Blogger’s note: This dude does NOT lie (or well)!). Dang it, if he didn’t do it once, which means he’s either been practicing how not to do it, or I didn’t hit any nails. 

My first try, after the first glass of wine, made mention of Zika; the flu-like virus transmitted through mosquito bites and sex. I said I should probably load up on bug spray just in case. Nothing.

After the second glass of wine, I pursued the clothing angle. I told him I didn’t have any swimwear at home, and he’d have to swim alone if there were beaches or pools involved. He didn't seem concerned. Just to cover my bases, I threw in that I didn’t have any ski clothing laying around either. They're all in our storage unit. Nothing!

After the third glass of wine…Listen, a girl’s got to try everything! NOTHING!

I actually thought I could snag him someway, somehow. He’s tight as a drum! Even my best friend, who didn’t behave as if she’s on “Team Gina” when she declared he should withhold all information until within a 24-hour window, won't budge. Either!

I don't know if I can handle it. I have five days until I know something, I think. I don't know if I can handle it. Maybe I’ll come up with some tricks to pull out tonight. Because I don’t know if I can handle it. 

In truth, I want to know, and I don't want to know.

Trifextra: His Secrets

Asking him to look through his wallet, and surprised he said “yes”, I combed through piece-by-piece, paper-by-paper. It felt strangely exciting, intensely personal, bordering on inappropriate. Like he trusted me with his secrets. 

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33 words in the first person for Trifecta's weekend challenge.

(Yes, I changed my entry)

Letters Written In Secret

A tiny poem by Robert Frost to inspire us this week from Write On Edge:

The Secret Sits

We dance round in a ring and suppose,
 But the Secret sits in the middle and knows.

se·cret/ˈsēkrit/

Something that is kept or meant to be kept unknown or unseen by others.

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I have secrets because I’m not an open book. Some things I just won't part with because I want them selfishly as mine. They’re not bad things by any stretch, just not common knowledge, not to anyone.

Most of my secrets aren’t naughty or irreverent because those are called “skeletons” and I have more than a few of them as well. The keeper of those is sworn to the deepest depths of her being and will never reveal them. Of this, I am 100% confident. Plus, I can resort to black mail if necessary because she has way too many bones out there too, for which I oversee. It’s nice to have a friend like that, of 30 years.

She’s also kept secrets in the form of letters I desired to keep forever that didn’t have a place in my home anymore. Although opened by me over 25 years ago, I’m certain she’s never read a single word of them. It’s the kind of person she is.

Many of my secrets, past and present, turn back to letters I've written.

I have always had a relationship with handwritten letters, for as long back as I can remember. Maybe because that’s just how it was; the only private way to communicate with anyone.

“Private” was a secret in itself sometimes. Precarious. That’s part of the allure of some letters, isn’t it?

I became a proficient note passer in grade school with a stellar record in confiscation. In high school, love letters were hand delivered because posting them risked an interloping mom’s eyes. College letters found the blue box and I’d wait with bated breath for words to be returned. Waiting was the best part.

And it continued; my letter writing and still does to this day.

Anyone who has been or is special to me has had a letter written to them by moi. The secret there becomes the ones that were mailed that possibly shouldn’t have been many years ago rendering return mail unable to be saved once read. Letters not inappropriate in content per se but to whom they were written and why.

Then there are the letters written in secret, for my eyes only, that have never been mailed and the potential recipient will never know of their existence. They will never receive a postmark.

I wrote one of those recently; one that will never be mailed. I’ve kept it, hidden.

The scariest thing is I recently dreamt I called the addressee asking for their information to send them my handwritten letter. This would never happen for many reasons but mostly because I don’t want its contents revealed. Ever.

That’s MY secret.