The Return Stamp

I took the book back to the library

after six months

of carrying it like evidence

of who I thought I was.

The librarian didn't look at me

when I handed it over.

She just scanned it,

stamped the return date,

and slid it back onto the cart

where it would go back to the shelf

to wait for someone else

who might actually read it.

I'd renewed it five times.

Five times I'd gone online

and clicked the button

to keep it a little longer,

to pretend a little longer

that I was still the kind of person

who read books,

who had time,

who could sit still

long enough for the words

to mean something.

I never got past page fifteen.

The receipt showed every renewal,

a calendar of my avoidance,

a timeline of lying to myself.

I stood at the desk

realizing that keeping the book

wasn't about reading it anymore.

It was about proof.

Proof that I was trying.

Proof that I was still someone.

The librarian looked up and asked

if there was anything else.

I wanted to say:

I'm not who you think I am.

I'm not who I thought I was.

I'm someone who keeps things

that don't belong to her,

who pretends,

who renews and renews

and never follows through.

Instead I said no.

I just said no,

and I left.

I could check out something else.

I probably won't.

The book is back on the shelf now,

its pages still mostly blank

from my hands,

its spine still stiff

from barely being held,

waiting for someone

who will actually want it,

actually read it,

actually finish something

they start.