You hoard mistakes,
you suck up
ink greedily
stealing words
into your never-ending
pages.
You cherish
scribbled thoughts,
raw and real.
You covet
doodles
that aren't so
meaningless.
You feed off
the stretching of
your spine,
the quick rustle
of pages
the drag of a
bookmark
being removed.

You are a desert
and the pen is
the serpent
slithering and
hissing over
you.
You are a sponge,
sucking up whatever
touches you.
You are a canvas,
transforming
as the paint slicks
over your surface
becoming the
artist
and not quite you
anymore.

You are reliable.
As soon as those pages
whisper closed,
as soon as you hear
the crisp
“snap”
of the cover,
you can be
counted on
never to
betray the
writing on
your pages.
It's not your
fault
if someone else
comes along
and dusts you off.
It's not your fault
if maybe, you
enjoy it
a little.

After all,
you've been lonely.