My world is falling apart at the seams
like the books on my shelf.
I'm filling them with annotations, post-it notes, highlights.
But I'm not filling myself.

Literary figures come to mind at night.
They form one literary nightmare.
Bleed into each other like one story.
And in class, I can't tell them apart anymore.

And I can't tell who I am anymore. Who am I?
The girl suffering with eating disorders, depression, anxiety?
Or the girl who loves the books filling her shelf?