Book

What am I to you, if not the paper cover to a book?

A book you dare not read because the portrait on the front appears tarnished and complex.

A book whose words have been smudged by the bottles of liquor I use to chase the burning thoughts inside my mind.

I’ve been told I have an old soul,

Maybe that’s because my spirit has had its body in the pool of my tears for far to long,

Hands all pruned by the memories it has tried to down ,

Bruises in its thighs from how hard self hate tends to fuck her,

You know, If I could be anything, I’d be a glass of vodka, a line of cocaine,

I’d be the inhalation of every fucking cigarette,

So I’d never know the feeling of being let go,

Instead I’m a penny on the ground, easily taken for granted,

I’m a child’s toy, played with and forgotten,

I’m the paper cover to a book, a book you dare not read.