She wished she’d never leant me out.
Never shared. Some people are so
careless. Disrespectful of printed text.
Paperback. To them I’m disposable.
Came home with my spine broken
in four or five separate places. Pulpy.
Split. Falling open to specific passages.
Usually sexual. Explicit. The juicy bits.
Pages turned down by nicotine fingers,
thumb-prints sweated indelible. Cover
bent over with a deep crease scored
and a coffee ring branding my rear.
Blurb obscured. Story forever flagged
in narrative stains, wrinkled bathtub
watermarks. Permanent smudgy edits.
She wished she’d never loaned me out.
And because it’s a poem personifying a book, I couldn’t resist including this…!