Mama told you when you were young
that people would treat you like a library,
come and go as they please,
sometimes leaving you a little more
empty,
sometimes curling up in a corner, immersed in you
an ark, strong and safe, for some
as they talk over you and
leave two by two,
fidgeting hands leaving gaps in your armoured rows of memories
as they drag fingers along book spines
unsettling old and stubborn dust
in neat little lines.

Sometimes they will come only to put you back on the shelf
in order to move on to some brighter place.
You see, your dim warm lights will comfort some and depress others,
and that's alright, she said,
some will risk it all to stay all night.
Still, knowing this,
you sit lamplit on the patio
buttoned up with regret
wine red lips pursed
burden on both sleeves
tired of the world already at twenty three.
She never told you that torn pages and unfinished stories
would bleed and hurt like real wounds
that some visitors would leave you
collapsing behind them,
crumbling, folding,
the threat of closure looming
like an unsatisfactory ending--
she didn't tell you that libraries are also oceans
stretching fields
and cities
burning crashing and fading into bittersweetness
and balled fists

she didn't warn you of plot twists like this
or what to do when they arise
your big moon eyes clouding over
like a stormy night
in front of living room lights
that have turned their back on you
or that sometimes peter pan at the window
would have more luck than you at getting
through people's frosted glass

You have to learn your own fresh start
you have your own paintbrush, you have your own heart,
So, paint your insides, watch them dry
under the new moon.
That sinking feeling is just
a new room,
no bookshelves in it yet.