“She knew only of love, what she had read in books
The novels on her shelf held her most prized memories
She shared in their moments, both happy and sad
She felt every word as though the pen which wrote them had stabbed each letter into her skin
Shackling her forever to the thoughts she wished so deeply were her own
She could not lay claim to her feelings,
For they were written by the hand of an ex lover not known
She felt only the fear and joy described on yellowing pages
She was held together only by the loose binding of the oldest book
She was as damaged as the warped covers of collections that had lived well past their time
As each page turned, and chapter end, her life followed suit
She followed a path, not meant for her
Lived a out a fate, destined for another.”



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