by Amelia Arnold.
I’m sitting on the return cart again.
Smushed between famous literary pieces, all cherished and treasured, not a single blemish among their pages.
And then there’s me.
Pages of my heart dogeared and torn, writing in the margins from someone who loved to read me at first, promised to read me forever, marked my pages with pen and notes, before returning me more damaged than they found me.
I’ve learned from a young age that to be loved is to be returned.
Pages marked, worn from careless reading. Loved enough to be read in the dark. Never in the sun.
Never enough to use a bookmark.
My love, reduced to folded pages and living at the bottom of someone’s bag, not wanted enough to see the light.
Until they’ve decided they’re done.
My pages are too worn, my writing too much to love.
And then I’m sitting on the return cart again.