The Body Is a Library of Grief
The body stocks it all,
words, fists, nights slept on concrete,
all crammed into you
like dog-eared bookmarks.
Each scar’s a faded footnote
in a children’s book nobody wanted.
The spine’s a battered filing cabinet
crammed with dead-end jobs,
unsent love letters,
and the dream where your father
said something kind.
But somewhere on the shelf,
one true sentence remains,
something like,
Even broken books
deserve to be read.