When I was little. I ran away into books and adventures. The spines broken and flapped a little.
The rough paper and off white color I knew so well. The smell that would surround me. I would be the hero of my own story.
Fantasy would become reality when reality was hell. Life was better with a book. Villains could be destroyed and good always prevailed.
I loved an alternate reality where my imperfections didn’t bother nobody. Where thundering words didn’t shake the house.
When I wasn’t scared of anyone leaving or hurting anyone else. Of doing something wrong that would mess it all up. When I had my book it fixed it all
Poetry 