I. "Loaner" 5.6.24
All my life, I have been nothing but a loner.
And when I got older, I became a loaner.
Passed and borrowed between people when I didn't know any better.
My heart became a library book, checked in and out on any occasion.
People left behind their own annotations
Dog-eared pages, places they knew they could-- and would come back to.
The highlighted ink bled through to future pages, leaving them tainted by past phrases and faded phases of my life.
I can't remember them now, but their mark is still there.
On, at least, the next five pages.
The library got me brand new, not even worn-in.
But each time I got checked back in, something was different.
Ny complexion, my binding, my ink, the corners of the paper, my shiny protective sleeve, everything.
One guy had me for a long time,
He returned me with a broken spine.
The librarian, although she tried, couldn't repair me that time.
All the tape from past repairs was all that was keeping me together.
I had no color left- no shine, no upholstery left on my broken spine, my bindings were only loose threads, my worn-out pages yearning to curl in,
But they didn't,
I didn't bend.
Instead, I sit on my shelf.
Holding myself up, if only by threads,
just waiting to be read.
glad to see you’re still writing! you still got it. I love this 🥺