You order two books off of Barnes and Noble
And perpetually wait by the porch
Every day to glimpse the mail carrier’s hands.
Anxiety settles upon your shoulders
Like the world on Atlas’s but because you believe
Carrying anxiety is not as intense
As carrying the world you shrug it off
But secretly, behind closed doors, your heart is biting its nails
Faster than it can pump blood
Because the world must not know what you are waiting for
Especially your parents for if they caught wind of it
You believe in your very core that they will douse them in gasoline
And ask you “at what temperature do books burn”
Before dropping a lit match onto the only security you have ever known.