Can’t I just be lost in the pages?
Not thinking of anything, anyone—
existing only in the words written,
no before, no after, only the moment.
No obligation, no action, just peace.
Forgetting to breathe as I await to be turned over,
my story continuing without needing to live it myself.
To see the end, so I won’t be afraid anymore.
To be judged, understood, and sympathized with.
Words are true—written, they exist. But do I?
Is this the existence I longed for,
or do I just want it to stop?
To stop existing—yet live forever in a book,
a memory you can hold, but never touch.
And while the ink fades,
the pages thin,
the corners fray—
will it have been worth it?
Is this the ending I’ve been longing for?
To be shelved, collecting dust,
forgotten like a story no one rereads.
Would that be so terrible?
If it all stops—
the book closes,
my name fades,
my history erased—
can I finally go?
Can I slip between the cracks of a worn-out spine,
dissolve into the spaces between words,
become nothing more than ink bleeding through the page?
No echoes, no memories, no weight.
Just gone.
Let the cover shut.
Let the words blur.
Let me be gone.