When you touch my body,
I am sorry for what you find.
I’m sorry that the story I offer you
is full of messy ink and jumbled words.
I spent years slicing up the pages,
hoping to omit the parts I didn’t like,
no amount of glue can hide the damage.
I beg that you don’t stop to ask
what the words etched into my covers mean,
just accept them as part of my story.
I’m sorry for the chapter where everything went wrong,
but this story wouldn’t be the same without it.
If you’re going to love me,
have the bravery to embrace the mess.
If my covers are the flaws you overlook,
leave me on the shelf.
This story is not yours to read.
I am a book for which “used” is an understatement.
I come with baggage, weight,
and a soul that has seen excruciating pain.
These pages still flutter with the hope
that someone, somewhere,
loves to read comedic tragedies.