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The Read

I'm so afraid of being an open book.

For pages to become faded.

For corners to be folded.

For type to be smeared.

For pen to stab with underline.

Being open too long will stretch my spine.

Expose pristine pages to be torn asunder.

To have Paragraph Witnesses creased, folded under

One another until the page loses its integrity.

Opening my literary structure.

Plotting me.

Am I all exposition?

Will you tire of my rising action?

The climax exposed, is this where you feel emboldened?

Poring over words to see secrets I hold in?

As I fall to resolve, do you speed through it all?

Do you ever witness my final conclusion?

I'm so afraid of being an open book.

Passages mistook, when consumed in isolation.

Pages only towering columns without concentration.

Chapters incomplete as holistic representation.


Along with these thoughts in my head

That fill me with existential dread

Is the desire to be well-read,

And the timid resignation with which I shed

That fear.

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