I\'m the book you read a year ago, sitting on your shelf
waiting desperately for you to crack my spine again.
The first time I let you pick me up, I pleaded for you to be careful, and baby you were.
You came back to me every night for weeks.
You cherished me like I was a copy of your favorite childhood fairy tale.
I let you in and you read my insides like I was your anatomy textbook and you had a final next Friday.
You were more scared of losing me than you were of the monsters in a Stephen King novel,
which is a lot because I remember you curling your head into my neck the first time we watched IT.
slowly though, I became the diary you keep your nightstand,
some people write everything in their diaries, but you, you only write when you\'re angry.
So instead of being filled with poetry and love letters,
all you ever said to me was full of hatred.
You no longer cared for bookmarks and bent my pages at the corners,
you threw me in your book-bag, not because I was the only thing you couldn\'t leave home without, but because you didn\'t care enough to place me down gently.
You didn\'t even finish me..we didn\'t get to see the Happily Ever After,
because you closed me early, and planted on me on the shelf along with every other girl you\'ve talked to.
You told me you loved me and left me to collect dust.
So i sit on this shelf, with the teddy bear you outgrew, and nick-nacks you don\'t care for,
I sit here and I wait, because when you cracked my spine,
you broke my back, and let me unable to move...on.