I'm digging my words up out of the books, flinging them over my shoulders like dirt as they lift from the page and flit in and out of my eyes, barely keeping me concious.
I try to fill up my gut with the gritty syllables that I can't actually hear, flung up from the holes in words, between pages, between worlds.
I press my fingerprints into the fine, aging paper, knowing it will help me later to cover up the void I'm filling with words.
Maybe if I can force my eyes to stop staring at sideways spines and straightup people looking just fine, I can make myself focus in the scent of the decay wafting up from between the words, or I can make myself read between the lines, instead of struggling to read the blurry spines that I can't help but watch.
I can't pay attention to anything, but I am spending every lunch and every study hall in the library now.