Dude on the Internet  spoils the ending of a book to my friend.
That friend spoils it for me.
"I needed it out of my system,  I am sorry Jaishree. "
I spoil for the girl sits next to me in the class.
She laughs and says
"I was expecting him to die from the start."
I spoil it for my other classmate who doesn't seem to care.
"It's just a book! It will pass in a few days."
How dare you, I mentally say while slaughtering his soul
Another classmate lent me her book for the weekend.
"It's written beautifully!  The main character dies in the end."
Well thanks for that girl, I really needed to know what happens before starting the book.

He looked at me
The way you look at
Stacked books
On a wooden shelf,
Carefully stroking my spine
After he's done it to
Three other stories
he'd gotten tired of.

Mr. Bookworm,
I am not a fictional option.
Yes, my cover is
Stained
And my last reader
Folded and tampered
With all my pages,
I only wish you'd
Treat this piece of literature
With respect.
You see, Mr. Bookworm,
I'm not a trilogy,
At least I'm not sure yet.
My Author isn't quite done with me. And I find it quite rude
That you stare at my papery insides,
Page after page,
Only to leave me
Back in the shelf,
Collecting dust.
Be patient with me, wandering reader.
Wait for my story
To reach it's ******.
Inhale my aging pages
Until you reach my resolution.
My apologies
For the times I've been
Rewritten.
But wait with me
Till you've reached my story's ending.
Because I swear upon my
Mismatched table of contents,
It will be a story worth telling.

I am sitting up in a bed of lace duvets, their yellowed hues glowing in the sunlight streaming through the curtains of the lone window. The room is musty, old, and smells faintly of the sea. As I tilt my head back and close my eyes, another scent, this time one of cherry blossoms and pears, fills my nostrils; this is my grandmother's bedroom. The walls are almost an off-white, a dull green tint the only memory of the color they once bore brightly. Birds are chirping, and I can hear the faint sound of fluttering outside the ancient window. A bluebird, perking up its feathers, sings its cheerful melody as it sits perched on the ledge. I smile at it, and it seems to bob its head, cocking its face towards me, as if in that one strange instant, it understood. The bluebird pauses for a moment before flitting away to his friends, eagerly feasting on the myriad of feeders hanging low on tree branches close by. Sighing, I lean back once again on the antique, yellowed bed frame, breathing in the familiar scent of the old white pillows. Slight violin music drifts in from the radio in the other room where my grandmother sits, silently knitting a surprise my sister will adore. The violin sings a song of a via dolorosa, of a crestfallen love that could never ensue, but still shone brilliantly. Tenderly, I pick up the book I'd been reading, carefully running my small fingers along its fragile spine, burying the aged pages in my nose, breathing in its rich aroma. The words take me to magical places, far-off worlds, daring adventures, the promise of mystery at every turn. For that is what a book is, is it not? A mystery waiting to be solved, a story that can transform the hearts of millions, a love that can spring up from even the driest of deserts...all that in the beautiful simplicity of words, words from the human soul itself, words that portray the depths in which the heart can swim against the coursing currents, the heights at which the soul can fly amidst the coming storm. I am flying now, on my way to Neverland, Oz, Camelot, The Hundred Acre Wood, 221B Baker Street, River Heights, Hong Kong, Camazotz, a secret garden.. I am the bluebird, flying high above everything else, traveling to unknown worlds of intoxicating adventure, experiencing
sorrow,
friendship,
love,
heartbreak,
joy,
death,
envy,
rage,
empathy,
horror,
romance,
terror,
and curiosity...
...all in time to be home for dinner.