Book by Hind

If you were a book, I would recognize you on a shelf
in a bookstore, among a thousand other books.
I wouldn’t judge you by your cover
or title
or by the horrible art someone else drew on your face.
If you were a book,
I wouldn’t read your reviews
I’d leave it to my experience
to gauge your worth,
to weigh the value of your words.
I’d avoid spoilers
and read you to the end.
I would never be afraid
to mark my favorite lines
with permanent ink
Because I’d never give you away.

But you are not a book.

You have a spine that bends,
a heart that is lost,
and legs that walk
away.

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