When it all comes down to it,
she was just a girl with
a diary.
A young girl.
A flesh and blood girl with aches
and longings and pains and wants and needs
and limbs too gangly, hips too narrow,
skin too thin to move around in.
If not for the War, would she have found her way
to paper and pen regardless?
Would she
have heard them call to her like siren song,
felt it manifest in the atoms of her
bones?
Or would she have written different
things altogether, things about dances and parties
and beautiful boys and silly things
that don’t matter but matter to her because
they happened, are happening, are
playing on repeat?
Anne, Anne—
winter girl, your heart’s too big
for your chest.
All you have is
endless paper in a diary stuffed
with longings and needs and your first
kiss and you wonder if it’ll last,
if you’ll live long enough, if this is
love or merely convenience and
you want to be out in the sun,
you want to be thawed.
You are only
thirteen,
fourteen,
fifteen years old and according to you
people are good at heart, still, despite
the fact that you hide with your family
behind a bookcase as you pen your
way through the dark, the ugly,
the messes, through a changing body,
through thickening skin,
through a world
sinking in on itself.
You did what you could in the dark,
used your pen like a flashlight, lamplight,
candlelight—
used your words as any writer would
and scrawled your way out of your
own skin.
- Kristina H., “Anne Frank” (via fleurishes)
