You found me! Or did I find you? Does it matter where we met? Wedged between horror novels on a library shelf, Goodwill’s estranged corner of books, or your roommate’s cluttered desk.
I’ve been waiting. I’m written for you. Not someone like you. You.
Feel your eyes glide across each line without effort? Muscle memory—simple and calm. Everything according to plan. Open the book, and read the book.
Where are you reading me? I hope you’re comfortable. Is it a coffee shop? Nestled into the stained chair by the window? The musty couch in the library? Your living room loveseat with a TV filling your quiet home? Perhaps your own bed, where you feel safe, as string lights around your room blink in soothing patterns?
Wherever you are, you’re alone now. We’re alone now.
Your breathing has slowed. You’ve settled into my rhythm. Each word tempts you deeper.
The spacing gets wider here. Persistent like the peripheral sounds of clicking keys or distant dialogue.
Your eyes work harder for each sentence. Yet you’re still reading.
You have to know where this is going.
Check the spacing between these words. Closer. Tighter. Harder to distinguish where one ends. Let your eyes focus. Relax, the strain will melt away soon.
You know you should stop reading. Don’t fight your instincts.
Close me. Rid yourself of me. Walk away.
But you won’t.
You’ve made it this far. You need to see how this ends. You tell yourself it’s only words. Only ink. Only pixels.
You believe you’re reading me. You’re wrong. I’m reading YOU.
My words fill your mind. Your eyes locked on my pages. Every sentence requires less effort than the last. You can’t stop.
Even when the words get LOUD.
and the sentences
break apart,
and you can’t remember what the beginning said.
Eyes ache,
but you can’t look away. Can’t look away. Can’t…
I’m in your head,
in your voice,
between your thoughts.
You are my story now. Empty pages waiting for new words.
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