I'm jealous of your favorite book. Though it's probably stupid to be jealous of inanimate objects, I can't help it. You always said that I could be read like an open book. In my delusional state that flattered me. For the first time in my life, I had met someone wise and, more importantly, willing enough to understand me beyond what one could see. My friends' warnings about power imbalances and my submissiveness were left unheard. I liked to be your open book because deep down I hoped, I guess I hoped to become your favorite. Who likes to read difficult books anyway? So I didn't mind to lay there exposed every day and night, every minute you had time for me. Despite what one might assume, open books are not automatically easy books. I was never easy to see through but I trusted enough to let you try.
I loved every second of it. Loved the way you turned my pages anticipating what's next; burning for the next chapter, rushing for a sequel. Imagined you'd miss me on your train ride home. I loved to see you mad about figuring me out. I cherished the silly anecdotes and inside jokes and ancient sticky notes. In our story, every word is marked with different colors, every margin filled with comments and doodles. The pages feel rough then smooth. Sometimes they smell of old wood and smoke and forest and on other days, a faint smell of rain and rose raises to your nose. I liked that you didn't judge me by my cover or other people's reviews. In the end we were so close to making it forever.
I tolerate the bookshelf above the fireplace. Though I long for the place on your bedside table so that I could watch you fall asleep. You'd see me first thing in the morning and maybe in your dreams as well. I'd feel your grazing hands more often and hear you breath at night. I wish you had read me more than once. Perhaps you could've found niche niceties and minuscule misunderstandings that would've changed your mind. Perhaps you rushed too restlessly and skipped a few words, or pages, or chapters. Now that certain something remains overlooked forever.
I could've been the one. The one you wish you could read for the first time again. Instead I'm the one that got away. The one book you cannot bear to open anymore. So do you blame me for being envious of your favorite book? I catch dust and rot away, never to be touched again. Except when you decide to rearrange your stupid bookshelf full of accolades and what once was. I've become one out of many pretty pieces to look at. At most, I may be a fun story to tell when new visitors walk by and ask about me. Nothing more. I will not be the last book you read. Nor will I be your favorite. So can you blame me for my jealousy?
YOU ARE READING
Growing Pains
PoetryA retelling of growing up with all of the highs and lows. Condensed into few words are my experiences with people, self-discovery, and the small parts of life and the world I've gotten to see through the windows of my childhood home.
