The Library

I read, like an open book

All others can see the words written on my pages.

I contain tales, read as secretive, 

A hushed whisper that only a handful have seen.

But how many times has this booked been checked out?

A sea of white masks, deadpan through the years

So cherished once, now faded, emotionless.

Forgotten both to me, and I to them.

My secrets are secrets no more - 

I own my past, without connecting to it. 

I am an open book, because who has to connect with a story?

People can project on a tale,

As what better to have in a confidant, than a horror story?

Something you can read from the comfort of your bed, 

A scary, scarred, stream of words that still seem otherworldly.

Frankenstein’s monster will never be faced – 

So, too, is this failures’ life. 

You understand, you say.

You sympathise, you say.

But how can you, when I checked myself out long ago.