Letter from 5am

Dear Pretty Book,

It’s the early hours of dawn as I write to you. My sleep has been disturbed and I sit here wrestling with my thoughts. I know not what else to do but write this letter in hopes that it will calm my spirit. 

Overall things feel much better here on the shelf. For the first time since I was written I’ve been making my own  decisions making me a happier book overall. But I still long for a reader and  decided to host an open house to bring readers from far and wide to the bookstore. It hasn’t been that successful,  but I wasn’t discouraged. Until today. 

Today I visited with an old friend just recently taken from the store. We shared news and updates from our lives over tea. It was great to laugh and chat in one another’s company. Until she tells me of his fingers on her pages and the joy they have together when the sun sets. “It’s magical and it’s worth the wait”  She says.

Pretty Book, I’m not sure why, but just those words angered me. I lay awake at this hour with tears in the  seams of my book over those words.

 I feel angry. At my situation. At my inability to effect my situation. At my Bookkeeper who keeps me here for reasons I’m not privy to. That my distress and dissapointment do not move Him. That I wait against my will. 

I’m angry that no one prepared me for the possibility of never leaving the shelf.  That I wasted my opportunity to become a library book of one nightstands with casual readers. That I’m the last one here. That it is truly magical. That it’s just out of reach. That it isn’t for me.

This year I will be a 26 year old book that has never been opened; full of regret and doubt. 
The Plain Book



I’ve always wanted to be beautiful, pretty prose but I’m no novel, I’m no epic, I exist in dark shadows. 
I’m not the book you take to be signed or found on a best seller list. I know won’t ever be studied or quoted for my eloquence.

You won’t see my text transcribed for a movie or TV, ’cause really, let’s be honest, no one’s interested in me. 

I’m a thesaurus. 

I’m more of an appliance, a means to an end. I’m used and used up but never read. I’m not a book of adventure, nor can I teach you how to sew. All I’m really good for is telling what I know.  

They’ll never “ooh” and “aah” at me or snatch me off the shelf. And they’ll probably just use Google when they actually need the help. 

I like think of myself as a  window that’s looked through but not seen.  It’s never me they’re looking for but everything in-between. 

In the rarest moments,  I catch beauty in myself. It’s fleeting and flirting. It promises so much beyond life on this shelf. 

When the moment is gone and I’ve remembered who I am. My lost hope and delusion press painfully against my diaphragm. 

I’m not sure if I have value and unsure if I truly care. Some days are worse than others with the drowing and despair. 

This unceasing hurt, deep wounds refusing to heal, I question and wonder how much more I can take, how much less I could feel. 

The Plain Book

Jeremiah 15:18

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.