you used to say that you could see what i was thinking, just by looking into
my eyes.
you told me you could read me like a book & that the cover to my book,
my eyes–a green tinged with golden rings, were easily opened by you.
i soon grew addicted to the fast turning of pages, the quickly scanned prose,
& the need rose to recite my story again, again, again
for someone who could feign interest in a thing so meaningless as a soul,
fully-barred.
but now this book is tired, worn, with ripped pages & a creased, wrinkled binding, from years of you,
opening & closing, perusing with little care.
i had little thought to what would become of me,
because when you were holding me,
you’d lovingly stroke my pages & read the story with excitement & ease.
but then, you’d leave me on your shelf to collect dust,
like a childish fantasy that you’d long since grown out of.
you told me you could read me like a book. what i didn’t realize was mine was
a story that you could put down.
how is it fair,
that every time you picked me back up,
i’d open without hesitation?
when instead, i should have locked myself away
behind binding & buried the key
like i buried my feelings for you for six years.
i should have stored my weary pages on the highest shelf &
shrunk into the shadows when your hands came groping for me.
but that’s not what love is. that’s not how our story works.
you told me you could read me like a book. it took me too long to realize
that it was also your tale that got me hooked.
because when a girl meets a boy who can read what’s behind her eyes,
what’s hidden in a fake smile, how can she not
open, open, open until she splits in two?
now, when someone looks me in the eyes, i won’t let them flip a page
— they may only look at me from the outside.
because, this book was scorned by its first lover,
& sometime it’s easier to let a tear remain
than to rebind the broken cover.
Your imagery in this is stunning Katie!! Revealing yet mysterious details in every stanza! Keep writing!