I used to work in a library,

The place where I found love.

I thought reading so much had opened my eyes…

But, no novel could have prepared me for this.

Love killed me.

And love stories always have a happy ending—

But life had a different genre in mind.

The air in here is thick,

And I enjoy the darkness.

But, it makes me focus

On the worms

Wrapped around my decaying body.

Maybe I’m just unlucky.

But, even the dead tell stories.