Book

I could never bring myself to write in its margins,
Or throw it away.
Would never fold it’s corners,
Or let it’s colours fade,
Let the black turn to grey,
Or red mute away.

It’s words hold me hostage.
Descriptions bind my wrists,
And complications feel like a gun against my temple.
It’s conflict feels like a thousand lashes,
And deaths are a knife in my stomach.

I have spent years reading and re-reading,
Days saying “just one more chapter,”
Lost many bookmarks,
And many more tears.