All the card holders are empty,
ABUSED? PLEASE CALL!
SEXUAL ASSAULT SURVIVAL HOTLINE!
SUICIDEL TEEN HOTLINE!
These cards fill the library restroom,
It's great these organizations exist,
What's more disturbing to me,
Is the fact that we need them,
Or even more so,
That the holders are empty.
The victims are,
Only increasing in numbers,
people are just becoming numbers,
Are just statistics anymore.
I write stories on my sleeve
Silent novels carved into my arm
Sometimes dragged out
All melancholy with the hope for happiness.
The different variety of length is on me.
I am a library,
My words are written for the public to see,
Shelves on shelves,
displaying biographies of my tragedies.
But my stories are closed off when I roll down my sleeve.
A sad man sits in front of me in the library
He seems generic;
A used sketchbook, modern glasses, and a Banksy sticker on his MacBook.
His arms are filled with marks
black ink solemnly attempts to cover up what is underneath
But they are beautiful
An abstraction of two people kissing, entwined like the style of the art
Further up is his star sign;
Honest, courageous, passionate
Impatient, impulsive, intrusive
I don’t know if this is him;
All I know is his art, encompassing his every stroke
His left arm has a different mark
What happened to you?
holy jesus, dude
you made eye contact with me
thanks for that, now i feel awkward as shit
oh fuck, I've just realized that my family will burst in here soon
I'm embarrassed already just thinking about it
there are so many other computers and you chose
to sit directly next to me, thanks so much for that
oh god are these keys too loud
am i clicking too loudly
holy shit did my stomach growl loudly
oh god i can't even think about chewing my tasteless gum
the walls are closing in
and there are some cute guys, or at the very least,
but i sit here and panic as i always end up doing
because even though I'm medicated for depression
and even ocd,
nothing says anxiety medicine like good old-fashioned
talking, am i right?
Tell me, are you a library, full of stories?
Are you a collection of fiction and fact that no arms could contain or no minds that could grasp?
I look into your eyes and I get a glimpse of the catalogs and genres which you keep within you.
You must have had your fair share of history; that is one textbook I want to study and memorize by heart.
Do you think I can be the one to take care of you?
I want to keep you a classic and as a monument in this era of advancing technology.
I will clear the dusty parts of your heart and wipe the slippery surface of your crying face.
I will caress every page you own and help restore the words you've been trying to preserve.
I may not be the one who found you first but I will be the one to stay by your side, until the day either of us crumbles.
So let me check your books out and let me return to you so very often.
Let me call you my favorite place and my second home.