I keep a library of lovers—
stories from my past,
each one a chapter that didn’t last.
I placed them on the shelves
like well-worn books,
but lately, I wonder—
were they just my faults
bound in pretty covers?

There was one love that had it all—
the fairytale,
the heartbreak,
the lesson.

Yes, it felt like a fairytale once—
so pure,
so full of light.
But looking back,
maybe it was just my young heart
coloring everything golden.

And yes,
it ended like a tragedy.
I reread it over and over,
trying to make sense of the pain.
But now I see—
it was my own hands
that folded the corners,
that tore the pages.

It became a lesson,
though I didn’t know it then.
I held on too long,
afraid to let go—
clinging not to love,
but to fear.

Now, I stand in this quiet library,
browsing through memories
with a bittersweet gaze.
Were they lovers,
or reflections of who I was,
what I needed to learn?

Still, I won’t close the shelves.
I won’t burn the books.
They’re part of me—
each one a mile on the road
that led me here.

Someday, I’ll write a new chapter—
not a fairytale,
but something real.
And when I do,
it’ll be the one
that finally stays open.