theres something about libraries that i adore; something beautiful in towering stacks of
stories about lovers i will never kiss. stories about soils i will never touch.
i find comfort in these things and knowing that i, personally, will not have to feel the first-hand pain of a scorned lover as they once did.
libraries with their slanted window shades all a-mess and their
tepid green book carts. i sit in my corner and remember elementary school and my mother spraying
starch on my collar so it stuck so stiff that even school bus wind couldn't waver it. i think of stone staircases covered with a single strip of sandpaper to catch tiny saddle shoes from slipping and of stained glass windows that felt warm in the winter. those windows, a martyred saint staring down and i was always confused on why they seemed so sad to be immortalized. isn't it what we all want? to be art, to cast light on a little girl's shoulder. i know now that i will not live on in a book, i will not wait silent on the shelf for confused fingers to grasp. my spine will never crack and my pages will never move someone. i will never be a book. i will never be a window.
i sit in the libraries and recall prayers plastered to the inside of my eyes and i'm a little ashamed to remember each one. i sit in the libraries and recall stories in the books and i'm a little ashamed to remember each one.