She was a book that slammed itself shut
A novel that would not want to be read
For inside her pages were blood, black ink
Curses, spells tied up with blue ribbons
A pale, moony face, a tooth or two for a fairy
Dressed up in a pink tulle skirt and golden wand but it never came
She had killed one of her lungs by blotting it out with pen
And drove her heart mad by drinking myths and stories made by the senile culture
Who did not believe that the earth is round
They say she was a genius, but she was also foolish
A walking oxymoron who loved and distrust people at the same time
Her pages are ironically mismatched; black, white, grays
With muted colors that depicts a dead lifeless world
So uninteresting that nobody would want her.
She was a book. And she slammed herself shut.
He was a hand, a gentle kind of hand
With lines on his palms, sweating, shining
In red and flesh, telling that there is life
His fingers depict labor, calouses worn out
In making things fly, float and flounder
He made tops that spin endlessly, dancing on the concrete floor
He made airplanes swoop into the sky, despite being made out of paper
He was a gentle kind of hand, and he opened her.
He opened her slowly, page by page
The cover was tightly sealed, as if it was locked without a key
But he opened it. He patiently opened it
Until such time that his fingers were numb
To turn another page, he opened it.
His eyes skimmed through the preface, a slow,
Sorrowful waltz, while tear drops splashed
Upon the table of contents
He opened her, read her, slowly but surely
Until she realized her pages moved by itself
Revealing her chapters without force
She opened herself until nothing could be hidden,
She opened herself because she did not want to stay hidden
Until her all the words came flying through the air
Inhaled by the most faithful reader
Whose eyes did not cast out not even one mistake
But silently touched each sodden, sepia leaf with his warm hands
She was a book. And she was read.
By the time her story ran out, Someone took his pen and ink
Ready to write a new chapter on the blank canvass
Ready to create her, into something new, something lively
Until such time that she will open herself voluntarily
To any reader who came upon her covers
Because she is proud of her words and is not afraid.
She will not be the book that slammed itself shut.