The dust flies off the decaying books like a migrating bird.

It seems even they feel as if they don’t belong.

I stay hidden, muted by my anxiety in the back room of the library.

Wondering if I was a bird, would I be able to share my song?


The pile of books at my feet are the ones no one seems to care about.

I guess I’ve been the same way, so I tend to their shedding covers.

They just want to change, rid their skin like a growing snake.

I put down one, and pick up another.


How does a person give all their being to a crowd of hurt authors and words?

My hands tremble, thinking about if I would turn out like these books.

My eyes are dripping transparent paint, unable to make a picture of expression.

Will my feelings remain hidden this way, with my only friend being depression?


Depression and I have been close, traveling together like two freaks in a carnival.

It’s the only thing to have ever stayed in my life for this long, you see.

I’m trying to pull myself together, and remember my plot.

However my main core has rotted like an abandoned apple at my grandmother’s home.


A single tear drops down on the book I was glancing through.

I almost feel as if I should apologize, but I know it understands.

I gently comfort the drowning word before looking up to see my librarian.

And she has a bookmark in her hand.


“We all have times we have to pause and breathe.”

She susurrates to me, trying to provide comfort.

I bookmarked my tear, analyzed my fears, and allowed her to lend an ear.

Talking, feeling like a guilty mime who utters before the face paint wipes away.

But harvesting what it feels like to be a book being read.


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