Her eyes were like old books. Her palms ridden with the indents left by her finger-nails from her clenching her fists too hard.
She goes through life angry and full of hate, now. Her pages tattered and worn; the words almost undecipherable as a result of having repeated the same mistakes over and over again.
She’d tried mending the holes in her heart by covering them with patches; sewing the seams just so; the patches overlapping each other until her heart was completely covered in them.
She would let herself love again.
Each time forgetting to prepare the sewing kit and each time needing more thread than she did the time before.
Eventually she came to think of herself as a master book-binder. Because, she knew, better than anyone, that hearts wear down the same way books do: by being touched too often.
But a time passed without the need for any needles and thread and patch-making and her skills grew weak.
She didn’t even notice the signs, blissful as she was.
But the day did come, as it always does, and this heart break was so overwhelming the already-worn-down seams of her old patches began to rip. She brought out the sewing kit and frantically tried to repair the damage done, beginning with the freshest wound.
But there wasn’t nearly enough thread.
Her needle was rusty from years of use and then years of being left alone.
The seams were too worn, the fresh wound was spreading too fast; they would not wait.
She was scrambling to find new materials as fast as she could, feeling the cloth from the patches come loose and float up and form into a clump in her throat; they did not wait.
Unable to bear with the pain any longer, she fell to her knees and cried and cried until the clump came out and the bleeding had slowed and she was able to breath again.
No longer a master book binder, she goes through life angry and full of hate, now. Her wounds are always bleeding.
People have no use for old books when they already know the story.
Books have no use for book-binders when they cease to be read.
She has no use for love. Not when it’s only ever left her lonely and empty and afraid.