the bookshelf

the bookshelf

The desire-less dreams of simple suffocation dawn
on me after only one hour at your aunt’s.
There’s fourteen books stacked
on the shelf and you say how
funny it is that they belong in the back
with the boxes.
There’s nothing wrong about believing in
beauty,
and wanting to think of being somewhere where any
of your opinions, or thoughts,
matter,
but I guess you were right to believe that
no one is really capable of anything pure
and that we’re all vain and self-driven.
I loved you though, and if any part of me
mattered, then I’m sorry for never asking
for the moments I needed and for always
thinking it meant something
more.
In the putridly placid, you glance up and witness the
belated bite, with nothing,
none,
but the terror of my eyes, fixated on the
shelf.

– Charlotte Griffiths

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