In my old poetry class, we once had to write a self-portrait as an object in our room, and I chose the object I love most dearly – a novel. If it’s not obvious from the fact that I’m an English major who works at a bookstore and writes a book recommendation column, I’ve always had an intense love for literature and writing. Lately, I’ve been missing my passion for reading, as I’ve been limited to only having time to read books for class rather than my books from home, so I decided to bring this poem out from the depths of my Word files.
The Siren's Call
You used to embrace me as a
lover,
and run your fingers along the
scar on my broken spine, feeling its indentation and wondering
who left it as an ugly reminder of how
loved I once was.
My organs still bear the marks you left yourself;
the carefully ink-circled expressions remind me of your favorite parts of
me,
and the bent pages act as a roadmap for the places you lingered in me.
You used to embrace me as a
companion,
but now I see you hold the others the same way.
They, too, will grow to love the hints of the sharp citrus within your soap,
as your hands caress their body like you did
mine.
Others have read the words that call my body Home,
but never in the way you did because
they could never speak my story as though it were a gospel,
filled with a message that could shatter
the world.
You used to embrace me as a
muse,
telling your friends how I intrigued and
inspired you,
but now I will remain on the shelf,
tasting the dust as it settles on
my face.