My Sunday Afternoon
By Delaney Conserva
Flex back and forth
And flip the pages
Caress them like silk, and
It leaves a papercut.
Feel the weight of the binding, and
Anticipate the weight of its insides.
I once read that we are all stories, we are
All an open book.
So I shall tear open its spine,
Devour the black ink between the folds
And become a cannibal.
