8/31

decorative faux books

at my worst i am just waiting for you to enter.
hoarding my nothing like a hope chest. 
here is a dust jacket where i gather unkept promises. 
the shelf, brimming with letter "o." meaning "oh no" 
& "oh please" & "open me now." sometimes i glue my lips shut
for fear someone will ask me to tell them a story. 
really, the truth writes itself. i was made 
a conduit of searching. last year i had my palms read. 
her finger across my lines. 
she said, "you will. you will."
then, back at home, i could swear 
i looked at my hands & saw no lines at all.
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