Because Jenny Said To

I have read constantly, greedily, selfishly, voraciously. Cereal boxes at breakfast. Shampoo bottles in showers. Greeting cards in grocery stores. Airplanes in skies. Bumper stickers, billboards, and the sides of semis on highways. And always, books. Books in waiting rooms. Books in cars. Books on toilets. Books in lines. Books at parties. Books on tape. Books late into the night and books into the early morning, the sun setting and rising between pages.

Every night brushing my teeth, I walk as I have since grade school into the loft attached to the bathroom, and as sudsy white drools down my face, I stare at the bookcases jammed with titles distending shelves. And every night it is the same.

Manic glee. Feral frustration. Immense sadness.

Because at every approach, I feel dynamite strapped beneath my ribcage, timer counting down, reaching zero before my hands reach half the shelves. Fuck physics. I want to read them all. At the same time. Now.

If they were grapes I’d throw them into my mouth, oozy, pulpy handfuls, and when purple shoots from my eyes, I’ll throw the rest on the ground and stomp wildly, mashing ink into wine, sucking the white carpet so dry I won’t leave a stain.

Then inebriated with words swirling through intestines and splintering through veins, constructing libraries among organelles, these books will surround the dynamite, coat it, unable to slow its race but able to welcome the inevitable like New Years— with arms wide, shouting greetings, kissing its cheek, hugging its neck, throwing confetti into the unknown.