the girl sits in her fluffy bedroom chair

curled up

blanket-covered

a book in front of her

and she is crying, because

her favorite character died

or someone told the truth and it hurt

or someone’s brother died and she could feel a character’s pain in her chest

but when she closes the book,

she smiles

because the book, the story, the world

makes her happy

reminds her

of when she wouldn’t let go of the book on her first day of high school

of when she read it for the first time and was awestruck

of how she grew with it, with her fictional but very real friends

of how words on a page made her feel like she was going home

 

she is only partly aware of the

typed words running through her veins

her lifeblood

her spark her soul her core

worlds and people and things that aren’t real

she is only partly aware of the

colorless soundless existence

that crouches just around the corner

if the smell the feel the portal of books was taken away from her

 

all she knows now is that she is happy

even though there is death pain anguish

because she has a book in her hands

and she has more than half of it left