I sneak out a lot. Sometimes, I leave to meet the guy who only sees me in secret. Most of the time, I stretch out on the grass behind the clubhouse next door and look at the moon. I’ve heard wishes made on the moon come true. I’ve also heard that there is no dark side to the moon. I wish this was true about life. I wish very hard on the moon. My moon wishes don’t come true. Still, I find myself out at midnight staring at it— waxing, waning, full.
I wish he would touch my face when he kisses me. I dream that he gently strokes my cheek and traces my lips. Now, he mainly pulls my hair at the nape of my neck or touches my breasts. I don’t think kindness or intimacy cross his mind in our embraces.
I kiss him with eyes half closed waiting for him to see me.
My mother found my secret journal. I forgot to hide it yesterday.
She threw it at me and said, “I don’t know what this is but destroy it before your father sees it.”
I begin to cry and cradle the black speckled notebook in my arms like a baby. These were commentaries about my life and feelings I had hoped to share with my future daughter.
Now, it’s something about which to be ashamed?