I fell in love once.

I opened up to him. I shared my stories and my feelings; I made him cry, laugh, and smile. I entertained him, and he loved me. I stayed up with him until 2 AM, narrating a nail-biting fight scene and a romantic encounter, while he stared intently at my pages. He took me everywhere: the car, bedroom, living room, kitchen, and for a little while I was his world. Sometimes he read aloud in a soft voice or dragged his slender finger across a line that was meaningful; once, he riffed through my pages and folded a corner. He hung onto every word I said, and when the last page came, the room went silent. He took a deep breath, and slowly dance his gaze across the page. When that last period came, he took another content breath and was done with me.

Just as I grew attached to a him, he decided I'm not worth it anymore. He took advantage every story I had and told his friends and family. He stole every fiber of my being, and I became boring to him. He moved on to newer stories, hardbacks, and modern book, and here I stayed.

On the bookshelf,

No longer story-telling,

Collecting dust,

Closed.

I don't sleep because I'm tired

I sleep to dream about a better life

I sleep to forget the pain of the past

I sleep so no one questions me about my tears

I sleep to drown out the sound of my parents yelling and screaming

I sleep or else I think about hurt and suffering

Sleep protects me from thoughts and others

It protects me from myself.