My book.

when I write in my book

pages curl beneath my thumbs

the pen pushes

etching words in its lines

page one is crinkled

read too much

page fifty-three is burned

a nightmare abused

page twenty-seven is empty

a memory forgotten

​

these are the novels

I draft and rewrite

edit the pages

red marks through the pain

the trains of thought

that remember my father

circled and underlined

as if it's important

the foremost thought on my mind

missing and reminiscing

his voice muffled by the phone

​

another memory surfaces

written in pencil on ivory pages

I erase and remember

details I encased, locked in my brain

stains linger in my book

coffee and butter

bitter and sweet

stifling the old smell of worn spines, resigned by my fate

​

and on page ninety-nine 

I hope I'll reminisce on all the things

I wrote

I hope I leaf through my notes

abridged and signed

an autobiography

of my mind.

​

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