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Poetry

I Finished the Book And Looked Through It Again

Interpretation of what follows is solely determined by the reader. I will provide nothing more to guide your thoughts.

The early chapters are left fairly untouched.
No corners are bent, I still used a bookmark then.
Not knowing what to look for,
there are no annotations for lines emphasized.
A drawn cluster of daisies lay in the footer of a page,
along with a bouquet in the top right corner.
The penciled illustrations had begun to fade.
Only a few things at the start were memorable.

Storylines pick up about a quarter of the way through.
I started writing the the margins and underlining text.
I became invested in the characters,
more aware of how their actions impacted the plot.
The drawings in blank spaces slowly transformed into comments.
I developed a system of highlighting quotes that stood out in different colors.
I even got bold enough to question, and predict the author.
Thinking I knew how everything would take place.

Halfway through the book, I started to bend pages where I leave off.
The paper’s edges are warped noticeably from it’s side profile.
Answers to questions I had prior subtly reveal themselves,
and the characters start to behave unexpectedly;
my original thoughts unravel with the new words I read.
The questions I wrote were now to analyze,
and prepare myself for uncertainty.

Flipping the pages rapidly, a small rip at the seam of a page had appeared,
and I was reminded to read with caution.

Somehow the rip spread into a tear.

And I took too much time taping it together.

The page was flimsy now and changed the touch of the book entirely.

By the time I reached the end of the story,
My handwriting became nonexistent in the margins.
trying to free my mind of my own controlling theories.
Invested in finally knowing the future I wondered of for so long,
I let only the words in front of m guide my thoughts.
The novel’s spine is worn,
the corners of every page are hunched inward.
I cautiously but mindfully moved the pages through my hands,
knowing this is the only time these words would feel the same.

Somewhat satisfied with the ending, I look back now, at this tattered book, deciding if it was worth the read. And if I should invest in a new one.

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Written By

Kellie is a seventeen-year-old girl from Hawaii who adores all forms of modern art, and strives to better herself through education and open-mindedness.

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