March 8

I dated a man in publishing once. He showered me with books like they were flowers; I took every last one, added them in piles to any free space in my tiny room, felt wealthier than any larger apartment ever could make me. We were both poor, had nothing to offer each other, even in metaphor. When we parted I was reluctant only for the impending poverty of my shelves: his gifts had not been enough to buy him my adoration. He seemed to think I owed it.

Today I stood in a used bookstore and breathed in the smell of old riches, let the soft, dusty pages cave at my caress, let the narrow aisles close in on me. I lingered in the discount section - a frigid courtyard wrapped in tarp - until my fingers were numb and my arms full. Thought a life in stories is the only one I can live. 

I do not need a man to give me the stories, though. I make my own goddamned stacks of gold.