The Library

I read, like an open book All others can see the words written on my pages. I contain tales, read as secretive, A hushed whisper that only a handful have seen. But how many times has this book been checked out? A sea of white masks, deadpan through the years So cherished once, now faded, emotionless. Forgotten both to me, and I to them. My secrets are secrets no more - I own my past, without connecting to it. I am an open book, because who has to connect with a story? People can project on a tale, As what better to have in a confidant, Than a horror story? Something you can read from the comfort of your bed, A scary, scarred stream of words that seem otherworldly. Frankenstein’s monster will never be faced - So, too, is this failures’ life. You understand, you say. You sympathise, you say. But how can you, when I checked myself out long ago.