i wrote this in high school when i thought i could write for a living

the thing in my chest
coughs, it wheezes like
a dusty shelf of books;
despite having been
read and reread again,
but still undeciphered-
books filled with sad stories,
and reasons why things happened
they way they did,
how good people were chipped away
by the chisel of truth
to the rotting core of reality,
and how sadness was,
sadly, inevitable.

pictures of you in the
photo encyclopedia
carelessly carve themselves
into everything that holds
even the faintest story
that is written by your tongue.
i remember all of them-
i could recite every word
off by heart.

but the lesson i learned
from reading all those books
was that stories are merely
fiction. Traces of truth are
interwoven into the combination of
twenty six letters that make up
the words that you seem to alter
time and time again.

i said i remember all of them-
i meant every version,
every variation.

you touched me with your hands
but did not disrupt the layer of dust settling on the
covers.
you read and reread the poetry
i created to try and shield myself from
disappointment.

i have yet to be deciphered.


Featured Image: Books by PactoVisual is licensed under CC0.

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Self-proclaimed jack-of-all-trades. Intersectional feminist. Educator/linguist in training. Fashionista, food-lover, and fairly poor hand-eye coordination.

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