you took my trust
my naive love

and you betrayed them

you ravaged them

until all that was left
were shattered pieces
where

my soul once was

Some days I hurt a lot. Some days I don’t hurt at all. Some days im really happy and others I feel numb. I don’t care. I don’t want to feel or think. I am as meaningful as the books on a bookshelf in a high school, English classroom; looked at by everyone, but never touched. Never loved. But when one person picks a book, and reads. The book then becomes useful. Representing the good days; when im happy.
Some days im a book being read, and others I am waiting for another person to read my pages. This analogy is difficult. You see, Someone might be interested in book and so they read, but once they are finished. They know the story, they know everything there is to know, and so they move on to a new book and place the finished book back on the shelf. Some people never finish the book and lose interest halfway through. Some people judge the cover and put it back on the shelf.
So you can see why I feel like a book. Im used, like a book. Someone walks into my life and asks for my story; and I show them, I tell them, I express myself. Yet as soon as the story ends, and there is no mystery left in me for them to explore, they walk away. Some people take one look at me and hate the way I look, so that person will never give me the opportunity of day to say “hello”. Or “goodbye”. I am irrelevant. I am a book.