Sometimes I wonder why the tears I cry aren’t letters
black and inky to stain my clothes
why my paper skin is not covered in words
like a disease without a cure
or an addiction without help
why stories of princes and poppers do not pour out of me
when someone is brave enough to delve under my cover
why pictures do not cover my face, ink bottles spring from my hands
when they ask for a demonstration
why leather bindings do not make up my home
buckles and ribbons
locking me up tight
since I am made of books
and not flesh and bone.

--Lily