What Waking Up By A Book does to Me

Losing me and gaining another
With each turn of page
Anticipation of what further
Is going to be, as I open my cage.

I smile, When she is tickled 
By the invisible fingers
That trace her as she riddled
Enveloping warmth, in cold winters.

I gasp, When he dies 
Or disowns their love
Or is plunged with sharp slivers
And cry like a mourning dove.

It doesn’t matter
If they live happily ever after
Or miserably ended therefore
Their voices in me will ever roar. 
I would always want
To pull them out of my closet
Like the attire of someone estranged
Wear them, as nothing ever changed.

They would be my undoing
The storms that destroy me
Pain in words on my body tattooing
Sulking for hours, like a dead sea.

Stab me, they would
With a knife that reawakens
People call them "word"
Like electricity, falling from heavens.
And I would be the lone tree
In a field abandoned
Waiting for it to struck me
So with its seal I’m branded.

And still I wouldn’t stop
Before I pick another and hop
On my bed, with a book in hand, 
In front of me, a different land.
Because, in this world, we can’t
Choose if we get hurt
But we can choose who hurts us
And I’m glad I chose books, always.