Dear Pretty Book,
I’ve been tasked with writing you and have aimed to avoid this as long as I can, but now can put it off no longer. Even now I struggle to articulate and pen my thoughts. How does one begin to tell a painful story with a thousand starts?
I had fallen to despair yet again. I looked around as the shelf emptied out here in the store. I asked our writer again and again why He must hate me so much as to keep me here. Why write a book that no ones wants to read?
He reached for me but I turned away.
He reached again. I withdrew and hid.
I wouldn’t even let my writer see inside.
Pretty Book, in that moment I realized-I’ve spent so much time pretending. Donning a mask to hide my hurt and heart break. A mask that I used as a safety. A deception I believed.
My printer damaged my pages in the beginning. She criticized and mocked them and rejected their authenticity. I decided to cover the rips and stains. So I covered up with my mask.
Traveling to the shelf I encountered other books who destroyed the parts of me that I showed them. And I covered up with my mask.
My first reader. He delved into spaces that I previously kept secret. He learned my lines and studied the spaces in a way no one ever had before- I thought I was finally good enough; but then he left. And I covered up with my mask.
The mask is suffocating but it protects me from the pain that wars against the other side.
I’ve grown accustomed to protecting my self. To detaching and abandoning the idea of encountering the depth of my hurt. A vault.
But who can read a closed book?