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.

From My Notes