The Notebook

My notebook is black and smooth. The inside pages are lined. The lines are as black as the notebook itself. So are the words, except on the first page. I always skip the first page. Tricking intruders that the following pages are as blank as this. This page reminds me of my potential.

The second page begins the black words that come from heart that is not black, but one that is lime with ripe inexperience -- complete inexperience except for the times when it is sliced open to let the inside fall out and the lime drips turn black as soon as they hit the page. Today, the last page was covered in black. I had nowhere else to go. Not even the first page. I always skip the first page. It can never lose its potential.

There is another notebook, of course, but it is not the black one with the black lines. It has no words, neither black nor lime. And opening this notebook would mean closing the last one and slicing the ripe lime heart again to let the inside fall out. Still, I have nowhere else to go. So I open, and I slice, skipping the first page. In this one, every page has potential.