a fantasy that cannot exist

she adds another book to the shelf,

and tries to erase the name off the spine –

it’s a chapter no one needs to relive

yet the pages keep turning, keep writing themselves

as she failed to end the novella with a fullstop

and in doing so

she committed herself to writing the sequels

she didn’t want to.

the ink doesn’t seem to

dry up;

instead it seeps through

as if it were blood

pouring through a reopened

wound.

it’s not what’s written on the page

but rather

what’s not;

hidden thoughts in the

deliberate choosing of words

and emotions that

cannot be felt

just by holding the book.

collections collect dust in silence

as time yawns on,

yet no matter how many

pages she rips out,

the plot she’s trying to

rewrite

and the character assassinations’

she’s trying to redraft

can only intrude so far

into reality

for what if she isn’t

holding the pen to these

books

but rather the pencil that

sketches out a fantasy

that cannot exist?

what if she never was the

writer

of her destiny but rather

a puppet in someone else’s

tale?

what if the chapters

she burned long ago

are being torched

by the present

and all that remain

are the ruined pillars

of her

Dream?

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