The Book I Will Never Write

by Charissa Pereira

Lies alone on a shelf named ‘fear’

In a room called ‘later’. 

In a file titled ‘maybe’. 

In a laptop screaming ‘not.’

My hands struggle toward its spine

Fingers wiggling for an extra inch

Toward my top shelf book evading my impressive reach.

Unyielding and uncompromising.

Apathetic to the scratches and claw marks 

Of my frenzied, desperate nails.

In love with an unwritten, apathetic story.

My mind locks as my file opens. 

I dream of words that I don’t write 

That my hands forget, 

Who hate me.

I dream of syntax and dialogue which dance

On the laptops of others, 

more in love with their minds, instead of my own

Inspiration bows to self-loathing. 

Brand new worlds stand shadowed behind a lukewarm heart.

Characters unbecome and fall back into pieces

Of people I’ve met along the way 

as my attention span refuses

To build them

Paper refuses me, pens shun me

Creative conversations wait around the corner,

For me to pass before they continue their way 

Excitedly towards someone else’s story.

My heart aches, my blood boils, my mind seethes. 

The forgotten lover in a romance that never included me.

In love with the book that will never let me write it.