“what are you doing,” you didn’t ask, leaving my hand flitting at the edge of the page: i was going to rip it out. you can’t stand to see me destroy a book; it goes against what you believe i stand for, and maybe against what i do stand for, if i could ever agree on anything with myself.
i dropped the book instead. since we were sitting in a harmless place, it merely quacked its heavy pages at me before thudding on carpet.
that was two days ago. i will have to touch it again, to put it back on the shelf, but right now i don’t trust my own fingers.