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Rewritten, again.

"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.

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