heart library (a betrayal of perception)

my heart is a library
            where i frequently wander, 
through shelves and
shelves and shelves of books, all sorted by author and impact,
made to run my fingers over each row, made to sit and read for hours
in the light of warmly lit lamps and
 stained glass panes of every shape and color.
  the walls are made of stained hardwood, solid and steady streaked
with deep brown-almost-black, rich mahogany  
holding memories and folk tales in its grain. 

               some aisles between shelves are 
familiar, have always been as long as i can remember – the pages in each tome are worn
and the spines are cracked, but each book (old and new) is taken care of as a part of me; my history, my current, my future, my thoughts and my memories of, mostly, family.
     these books are one of a kind, and will never fully be destroyed or disappeared, despite what happens to any of the several authors, 
 despite what stains the pages, 
despite what flame burns the wooden frames. 

some shelves in this variety have shifted (not gone, but); i’ve forgotten the way to them, 
over time, and they are buried to the immeasurable expanses of the library,
   to be found one night, cobwebs dusted off and

                                                       tears to mar each page. 

yet other shelves are forgotten, but not really, as hard as i try – their author is no longer credible, i tell myself, 
 and yet, it is so hard to abandon the well worn spot in the aisle between shelves. it all hurts worse
          when i have no choice but to remove 
each book from the shelf because they are no longer correct anymore, hurts more when i must bargain with myself for 
 which are worth keeping, which soft-leather covers really meant anything
 i thought they meant, and aches when
 it’s my own writing i have to take down, as well. i tell myself that at least this shelf will fill with other novels, at least it can be full again – unlike some other bookshelves, devoted wholly to
   authors that passed too soon, as a hope to immortalize them, to be forever half empty, mixes of their works and empty spaces where ones that could have been would be placed; but i know that the novels in those aisles will always fit right, will be revered, maybe added to
              with books of my own, will be passed down, read to youth to preserve a legacy. but these other, certain shelves, the betrayed ones, are filled with books to be 
                  abandoned, cast aside, in a place where others will never, ever completely fill the gaps, because i still can’t quite configure how 

    these volumes that i looked to for guidance, comfort, 

relief, protection, inspiration, joy,

 and the words in them (music, art, stories, community) 

that did truly give it to me, that i idolized, are the same ones i must now look at with contempt. though i know the change of heart to be valid and well-founded, i can’t bring myself to feel it in any more than 
                             thought, and that feels just heavy. 

        ah, well. 

everyday, i am reminded i know very little of what i’m sure of. and so change is inevitable – and so i can acknowledge it was probably too perfect anyway, and so i will wait for, search for 
a replacement, and over time i will stop ending up in these certain aisles that are half-dead, half-empty
 for all the wrong reasons and it will no longer 
hurt to walk by them. grief, even in its strangest, most undefinable forms, comes and goes. memories come and go, too. i, for now, am a constant, enduring. 

in the meantime, there are always other books to read. 

Sayornis p.

VT

14 years old

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