I made my life for you,

My hands,

Binding,

Scrawling,

Bleeding,

Clawing,

Converting myself into a leather bound book.

I have painted the cover in memories and tears,

Ink drawn from my veins.

Putting pieces of myself together,

In a simple chapter by chapter description.

It’s not until chapter five, that you see my soul dance between pages.

Chapter fourteen, that you watch my mind scatter amongst the words.

My hands are coated in papercuts and leather glue.

All because I yearn to be read.

To be learned.

To be spoken fondly of.

Decorating the front page in alluring swirls,

An attempt to promise you I am worth reading.

I suppose I could’ve put more in the introduction,

As I have yet to sell a single copy.

My efforts are noticed in the embellishments I put in,

The dramatic font.

I suppose my story has too many twists, perhaps it is lacking censorship. Characters dropping from the story so suddenly, the constant change in setting and mood.

The sun and the gloom.

I imagine it may be exhausting for a reader to keep up with.

One has yet to make it past chapter two,

So here I sit,

Collecting dust.

Crimson ink,

Turning to rust.

Peaked interest,

Turned to disgust.