A quiet
young woman
in a library
reading books
with diagrams
of bomb shelters
and *** positions

She's thinking
of her future

Most books
I've lost or destroyed.
Only a few
always remain
by my side.

If any books last,
they’re full of
coffee stains,
small folds,
worn-out pages.

Time spent
scrolling libraries -
shiny covers,
loud titles
posing for attention.
I see their beauty,
but none
caress my soul.

I know the moment
when it happens.
I’ve read
similar first chapters
once before.

The first page -
lightning bolt,
mental spotlight,
my heart whispering:
nothing else matters.

But every page
I turned,
I feared
all I love
could vanish
within just a few words.

Stories progress -
and so
their characters too.
I struggled
to keep up,
to grow with you.

I wish I kept reading.
I was frightened
by your clean slate -
no visible scars
to match mine.

I was afraid
to be misunderstood,
to be a burden.
You never knew
what it’s like
to have all you care for
blown up like fireworks
on a sad New Year’s Eve.

I expected too much,
hoping you’d see
dried up waterfalls
behind my stage light smile.

Years passed. I’ve grown.
I think I’m ready
to read again.

I hope you’re there,
somewhere,
looking for me.
Know that I too
search for you.

Show your torn-down soul
wherever you express.

Tell the whole world
how you defied
cold ravines,
silent nights.

Lay breadcrumbs
along your path
of self-destruction.

Trust in me
seeing you
as you drag
yourself along.

Let’s rebuild
our lives
together,
with worn-out tools.

dismember                          
the smell of the books you hide                
roughed into basement boxes amongst
the most casual of junk
the most bare note book
gifted and thrifted and costumed  
your little girl words tea stain wounded
                     marooned and mould afflicted
dismember the words you mooned after near hearts
               and the great white unrequited
the fluting of ****** fuel    the fumes of their history
badly stored  and water damaged
clumped 'mongst uni flyers and old never paid bills