I’d like to call you a bookmark
because I want to think I can
remove you from my story at will.
But you’re more like a dog-eared page,
that remains creased
long after it’s been remembered and unfolded.
When I flip through the pages
I’ll always catch my thumb on you
and try to find the lesson
you may or may not have taught me
about love
or myself.
But I’m pretty sure all you’ve left me with
is a deep, stinging paper cut
that makes me hesitant
to ever pick up a book again.
Aug 11, 2017
Aug 11, 2017 at 10:14 PM UTC
I’d like to call you a bookmark
because I want to think I can
remove you from my story at will.
But you’re more like a dog-eared page,
that remains creased
long after it’s been remembered and unfolded.
When I flip through the pages
I’ll always catch my thumb on you
and try to find the lesson
you may or may not have taught me
about love
or myself.
But I’m pretty sure all you’ve left me with
is a deep, stinging paper cut
that makes me hesitant
to ever pick up a book again.
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