By Roshni Riar, Staff Writer
I put unread books in my bag,
a silent means of self-protection
like a cross hanging from
my neck. Soft copies pile up around
the house, pages stacked high against
each other taking up more space than
I can afford. I don’t know why I’m
drowning myself like this. I carry some
stories around and watch the outlines
get tattered and warped with rain.
Inspect the covers, set aside. Never
the right time to crease the spine,
always too busy to spread the words
out on my coffee table to see what’s
being offered, or what I may need.
Maybe I don’t want to know what’s
inside of them. Maybe this is my own self
loathing, manifested. Gather the things
that could give me purpose and ignore
them. Present myself with the possibility
and never take it. Place another book inside
the same black bag in which I carry my
wallet, keys, pens, life. Take
the book out at the end of the day. Repeat.
