Hide and Go Seek

I feel that I am still running.  Some part,  some fading memory lingers still in my subconscious. Just when I think it’s safe to come out-

My mind has forgotten but the scars in my heart remember. Can we ever forget love or will it just haunt the cracks it leaves behind?  Chasing me down-

I’m determined to hide. 

 I remind myself that I like to sleep alone,  that I hate sharing a bathroom and  don’t want any  more obligation. I occupy myself with men I don’t love, who can’t hurt me.  A safe hiding place-

It’s the safest place I know.  I neither rejoice nor lament. 

I feel nothing. 

No one will find me here. 

Exposed (Part 1)

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?


Dear Book,

I’m a bit rusty.  I’ve almost forgotten how to write, how it feels to write and why I used to love it. 
I write this letter feeling abandoned. Alone.  I write not knowing where else to take my grief (if grief is the accurate word). 
Things have changed and I’m not longer the same story from even just a year ago and yet while so much has changed,  so much has remained the same.  I have no other book to write,  no other friend to listen. How have I arrived here again.  Albeit content to wait without a reader,  I find myself yearning for company  of other books, but I hope in vain.  The books have all gone,  I am the sole sad soul who waits. I have a hard time believing that there really is a plan. I can not see through the window anymore and no one sees me.
I’ve gone back to being invisible.
I’ve returned to the shelf

I hold my own pages together


The anonymous book