At the library I look for old books
Ones that might have actually been owned
Before they were borrowed

I write fake love letters on the inside
How I want these stories to change some person’s life

Now these novels are secondary
And the people finding them make up their own stories

They constantly ask themselves what it means
How it relates

In some I make lists
Of the parts of my body that still function

Some
See you final chapter

Some
This is the reason I almost didn’t **** myself

Some
I write what I really want to tell her

How seeing her sometimes
Is a punch to the gut
Like a fire at a library
And I dry heave barely blank pages

She comes here a lot
And if she knew
She might read them and wonder
Why I chose the books I chose

So in one I write
I don’t know
I’ve never been good at telling stories
I thought you’d make up some beautiful reason
And I could say yeah

In the bible I write
I never believed in god
But I also never believed
The story is over
After reading

The end