Beside my bed reside tomes of my self, spilled out in graphite and ink.

One whole shelf houses me, the smaller skins I shed as I’ve gone on.

And there are more, left other places… my purse, at work, on the bookshelf.

They call my name, these books, they yearningly cry out to be held, marked upon, loved, inhabited. I oblige, hear more calling at Borders and Barnes & Noble, hunger to fill them, too.

And they pile, and they sit, and I want to write in them all – all that ever existed, in fact.

Eleven sit in my home, still empty and waiting. More call.

But when will I write?

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