the bindings of my friends

books were my friends.

friends who understood why I didn't speak loud

or draw attention to myself.

we could sit in silence and disappear

while being praised as being such a well-behaved child.

“look she's reading,” they said.

“I always see her with a thick book,

I wonder what she’s getting into this time.”

there were no expectations.

there simply was another world.

or the same world with someone who was resilient

and would hold my hand through the hardest days.

I'm nothing special, just a part of the wall.

there really is no reason to pay attention to me at all.

it was important for me to be good enough to brag about.

“yes of course you can read.”

“even when you are grounded you can read. reading is good for you.”

reading was the only escape.

home wasn't good.

school wasn't better.

books were my friends - the library a club.

a new life to try on. someone to emulate.

hide, hide, hide.

I lost myself among the pages

but I found myself there too.