I'm burying my own words as best I can,
but as soon as I have set the ban,
down in a hole beneath filthy tongues
twisted from lies and sour-breathed pulling,
you make my blood boil.
You whisper about me, I can hear it,
behind the book shelf,
between the narrow isles of stories.
This place could offer me sanctuary,
but you came along,
and you are every noise, breath, sight and smell.
I cannot read, you are always over my shoulder.
I might collapse here and hope someone does not see me.
Am I overwhelmed or ******?
Am I lonely or needy?
Truly, I must ask, are things in me or are they part of this library?
maybe i have anger issues or something but there is no help but for books i cannot read because i am distracted at least a few times per page so HAHA