Purple Diary

My purple diary is obese with secrets,
it wheezes loud like broken trumpets.
Pages sweat like me in fear,
on treadmills I dodge once a year.

It knows each tantrum, the midnight feast,
my tragic affair with a starch‑filled beast.
It knows the chokehold disguised as care
the hugs that smother and a love unfair.

My purple diary is stuffed and perverse,
filled to the brim with confessions and curse.
A burden I dragged through endless years
masked by jokes I cracked to muffle my tears.

It knows the narcissist’s circus wheel
blindfolded knives spinning close to real.
It knows the family’s passive cheer,
the choir of "fine' hidden behind sneer.

One day when the world will pry it open,
expecting Shakespeare, finding soap‑opera token.
They will learn you don’t need a camp or cell,
to suffocate, just family drama does it well.

They might applaud it with bestseller prize
or dismiss it as a carnival of lies.

Either way, the diary keeps wheezing still,
like woods that hold their silence on the hill.