That book was filled with all the pain,
regret and torture endured in the past.
If left alone with my thoughts,
I'd fall into a pit of self harm and self pity,
it was there I leapt off the edge several times,
but never fell knowing how dangerous
I was to myself or anyone else around me.
I held on tightly to this book,
filled it with everything missing in my life,
so someday it could be found.
Thriving for the possibility of my words being dropped
and picked up by someone who could understand
the need for substance in my empty mind.
It became a list of everything wrong with me,
what needed and seemed impossible to change.
I held them deep and close to me,
and often ripped the pages and replaced them
with new ones full of more or less detail.
Reality showed that I wanted to rewrite myself everything
down to the length of my bleeding fingernails,
all because I felt no one could ever love me as I was.
So I began to live the lie I wrote myself until
I met someone who finally read me.
Someone who asked why I felt as I did.
It was a question I never could answer.
That was when everything changed,
when by my own omission, the lies surfaced,
yet this someone could still love me
despite being under the cover of this book.
Someone saw more. . .
The book still exists, but the confused self
and lost people in that life who would follow no longer do.
The someone who asked,
who changed my life,
never left me feeling empty.