My books are like pets

My books are like pets, they look at me with love. They have taught me not to bother to break off lines and to run, breakneck speed, like a Nina Simone song in my hair. Often, just like a pet, they run off from wherever I put them down. They scamper away, their words trailing and I look desperately, under dirty clothes, on small and big tables. I repeat the last words they say to me under my breath, hoping to entice them, so they come out with my weepy entreaties reflecting in their eyes, my lost socks hanging from their mouth. My books are also like lions, the kind that are able to choose which human language they would bother to learn. They open their mouths wide and swallow me whole, then put me back half-digested on the table in time for lunch or dinner, and my lover kisses me suspecting me to be the same person but he can smell that delicious whiff of over cooked flesh that he will later eat, with greed.

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