"Read books," they said. Like it was just A story. Like it couldn't shape you, Rearrange your thoughts, make you feel More than ever. But opening a book was Opening yourself. Inviting the words To remake you. "It's just a story," I repeat, broken at the table. Pieces of me, pieces of an author, Mixed like a pile of jigsaw Dumped out by a two year old And waiting for an adult to put it back. I can rebuild this. But I flip over the empty box, Trying to match the picture To what lies scattered. It's not the same. I contain Multitudes, and questions, And someone's version of an answer, And my version, and the truth. And maybe I'll pour coffee on all the Pieces. Reduce them to wood pulp That I might remake them into Paper, instead of something to solve. And then I'll write some words As beautiful as the ones that unraveled My being. And I'll sit at the table Of life. Renewed. Rewritten, again.