I was an open book. You read me, and threw me away. I'm sorry there isn't more. You don't want there to be more. If you ever want to read again, just pick me up. I am right where you left me. In the trash.
I can't be any more open to you. You can't be any more recluse to me. If you no longer fear what the pages say, then pick me up again.
I will remain here until someone else comes and takes me away. May I grab them like I could never grab you. May I mean enough to them that they pass me along, and not abandon me. You don't want to hear it. If you could even pretend you cared you wouldn't have slammed me shut so hard.
It is ok. This is life. I will suffer. You will play. Maybe another day.
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