So here I am, tucked under your waiting arms
This story's done, you've flipped my pages
Brushed cold fingers against my leather cover
Unwoven my thin bindings.
So now what? Do you take me back to the shelf and push me back into my place,
A favorable inspiration in the tome you write with a stone hand?
Am I everything you wanted, or just a simple ego boost?
Something for you to boast about;
"I read the story, and I guessed the plot twist."
Ha, far from it. I am nothing but a cliche. The plot twist was there was none.
But it's my fault for getting my hopes up.
Why would you want to take me home, this is a library after all,
Where you only read if you must, and those who read out of love for it all too often return you
I wish you would stop pacing about, hesitant at the door
I wish you would stop taunting me with tests and saying that you long for more
But you are oh-so hesitant, guarded like a diary
Hidden away under a smile, just behind your teeth the key
Our only difference is a lock,
A door that will not open for any knock
Was I fated to live like this? In you hands is where I yearn to be, under your piercing blue gaze,
But still I form the words, shrouded in a simple haze
But it's just my fault, a silly open book
When will I learn that without a cover sleeve, no one wants to give you a look?
And when they do, they're never satisfied