top of page

I want my book back

my heart had inflated,

a primary-colour bounce house with two arms

outstretched to you, of course, to you

we traded things because it was comfortable

we liked the same things

every fall was so soft, so bounce-me-back

to standing upright (a toast)

but now I want my book back.

if you are searching out for a boy with a brilliant track record,

do not take me on a date.

a slew of failed romances like scrapped Mills and Boon novels.

before you I had known when to trash them

(I leave a thousand and one stories unwritten)

sometimes the bleeding spill fresh blood

(you didn’t want me to cheat)

(why did that make me want to scream)

I would never have ditched them for you

I want you to ditch my book.

craning my neck at this weird new longing

waking up randomly, or else staring

at the line of everything I read in a year

a ghost leaking out the tiniest of gaps

I want my book back.

I don’t even hate being depressed anymore

(fuck, this thinking with positivity thing is tough)

I am familiar with the devil

that is how we categorise it

not by a decimal system, not by colour or secret code

every time a boy and I find inside jokes to laugh at between us

I start needing to use them as life vests.

so we have a difference of opinion.

(no I won’t reassure you all the time

that my friends aren’t hoping you and I crumble)

you bought me Jane Austen to read

oh you’re too much of an old romantic

oh I only need to see you for a moment

so I can be reunited with my book.

maybe my love language is books.

maybe I was just hoping I wouldn’t be so disappointed in a twist ending.

I bought you a present you may never receive

Christmas was headache enough.

the dizzying spin of every customer demanding my attention

so I have completely dispelled of you.

packed you up with the tree, the snowman ornaments

(I live in a hot country)

no chance of shoving my face in the snow

frostbite might change my feelings!

(I promise I am okay)

my obsession is on haunting for the book

whispering into the wind

I don’t expect to see you

(you made it quite clear I am a blemish, as all exes are to you)

so rent out a locker with a key in a train station

like in the movies

leave my 80s exorcism book for the ghouls

I’ll come collect it in a minute

(I can pay postage if you mail it)

just please, I beg for my book, I crave it

give me my book back and thinking of you will not hold me hostage.

                                                                                                                                                                 - Keeley Young

bottom of page