Like a pretty book sitting on a shelf,
you picked me with intentions of reading every chapter I have written
for a lover who would one day finish my untold plot.

I thought it was you.

For months you have read me,
flipped between my pages
and slowly traced my every word with your lying eyes.
Those very eyes that looked at me with interest
were the same eyes that stared at me with emptiness.

I hoped it was you,
to be the lover I wanted so desperately
to read between the lines of my “i love you”s
and see the “i need you”s underneath.

I wanted it to be you,
to be the one to finally understand
that every sharp curse I have written,
was only a feeble disguise for a whispered declaration.

But on Monday night, you stopped reading me.
For what reason you ask?
You found another book.
A prettier, more exciting book
that gave you what you’ve always wanted.
A fairytale.

I should’ve known you would leave me unfinished in the end.
After all,
no one wants to read a book about reality.