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I’m an old dusty book
my vertebrae, the binding,
my skin, leather-bound
the cover, my lips, prude,
as a virgin, waiting-
for someone, to pry open,
and read.
For hundreds of years
I have sat on this shelf,
ostracized
tattered
banished
longing to feel the palm
of one’s hand graze my
aged surface,
and liberate me.
I’m an old dusty book
my vertebrae, the binding,
my skin, leather-bound
the cover, my lips, prude,
as a virgin, waiting-
for someone, to pry open,
and read.
For hundreds of years
I have sat on this shelf,
ostracized
tattered
banished
longing to feel the palm
of one’s hand graze my
aged surface,
and liberate me.