Hold me like your favorite book
Tenderly clutch at my edges
Highlight the parts of me that touch you
Reread my beautifully-written paragraphs
Wallow in my details
Zone out for a minute and
Try to foresee what the next page will hold
And I’ll surprise you
Just one more page
Just one more chapter
You tell yourself you’re almost done
You couldn’t finish me in one sitting if you tried.
And you do.
But I’m too much
And I’m too long
Les Miserable is a short story in comparison.
I’m the kind of book you carry around
Read on a bus stop,
On your ride home,
While you wait for your coffee to cool off.
Take me in small doses
Put me down on your nightstand
And I’ll wait for you
To wake up in the middle of the night
And pick me up again.
For no reason, really, some days I wake up and my heart decides to break. Over nothing. Over no one. It shatters and scatters and I’m left to glue it back together, alone.
Alone is such a nice word to read, to write, to say. But never to feel.
I don’t know where all the sadness comes from. I don’t know what the source of it all is. All I know is, I woke up today and my heart felt too heavy to carry so I’ve been dragging it around like a drunken that should be tucked in bed before they say something they’ll grow to regret.
I want to tie my feet to a hundred helium balloons and let them lift me off the ground. I want to break free from all that ties me to a planet where you have to be cruel just to get by. I want to take off the heart that weighs me down like I take off my winter clothes at the first sign of spring.
I want to want something enough to go get it.