Dust jackets are designed to protect books,
Yet for some reason the touch
Of their textile against my calloused skin
Urges me to recoil
And remove the offending papers
At the detriment of the books I hold so dear.
I find people often remind me of dust jackets.
There is something about them
So demeaning
And disregardable.
It’s easy to recognize the way they rub you wrong,
Irritating your skin and bones.
What is the most irksome
Is the fact that I know people aren’t horrible.
Dust jackets protect books
The same way a person’s personality protects themself.
While I find those personalities to be
A small piece of Hell,
The person behind them
I find I hold dear.
So while a dust jacket may be something easily removed,
Discarded,
I can’t say the same of people.
You can’t rip the life out of someone the same way
You might unfold a book from its covers
Despite the fact that you may spend years
Attempting the feat.
So my shelves remain half-covered
With half the books covered
And the other half exposed
To my life
And to dust.
And my phone remains half-filled
With numbers who haven’t called
And texts that are unanswered
As the people I love
Age and die
And turn to dust.