Awake Bookshelf
A mile away in my bedroom,
Lies a bookshelf awake.
The sturdy, fine wood endures,
The weight—heavier than its own breast.
Compactly occupied,
Enough to choke on breath,
It holds the books I cannot escape,
An identity of a loser, preserved in its intact array.
The remainder is unbearable,
Cutting sharp, deep in streaks.
No blood flows, yet I stand still.
Bright, dazzling spines prick my eyes straight.
A wave of guilt fills the room,
And still, I cannot set it ablaze.
It pierces the moments as I lie aware,
A wish to die haunts me as it stands there.
Yet, it stays like a grave I cannot burn,
Waiting for me each time I return.
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