I read, like an open book
All others can see the words written on my pages.
I contain tales, read as secretive,
A hushed whisper that only a handful have seen.

But how many times has this booked been checked out?
A sea of white masks, deadpan through the years
So cherished once, now faded, emotionless.
Forgotten both to me, and I to them.

My secrets are secrets no more -
I own my past, without connecting to it.

I am an open book, because who has to connect with a story?
People can project on a tale,
As what better to have in a confidant, than a horror story?
Something you can read from the comfort of your bed,
A scary, scarred, stream of words that still seem otherworldly.

Frankenstein’s monster will never be faced –
So, too, is this failures’ life.

You understand, you say.
You sympathise, you say.

But how can you, when I checked myself out long ago.