Unopened
Alone atop my bedroom's cheap bookcase is a novel I don't touch. The book lies face down, and a film of dust borders the edges. Memory softened the book's red skin to pink. My ex-boyfriend planted it there. Broken paperback spines fill the bookcase from one end to the other. I left no space for his book within the four shelves, yet I haven't discarded it. I stuffed his clothes and toiletries into trash bags and ditched them on the sidewalk a year ago. I should donate the pink-skinned book; reading it would reopen the flesh wound. I pick at the scar, but leave his book there.
Comments