Spiral Sketchbook

You stare at me with the eyes of dementia.

Why do you avoid me?

Look at my blue cover and black spiral stairs,

do they scare you?

When you leave me splayed open— 

my pages filled with the doodles you left 

when you finally dared to use me—

do you do it on purpose?

How my spine itches 

for your touch 

like a meth head looking for their next fix,

do you even want me?

Why can’t you hold me 

as you press your pencil onto me?

Marking me with the lead, 

creating a whole new world inside me.

Your lines reference art before my ti- me, 

Artwork intertwined with memories 

of the past as it haunts every 

curl on the page.

You can’t seem 

     to throw me away, 

   can you?

You won’t let me 

collect dust under your bed 

like the other sketchbooks. 

You see my looks, 

you know my worth, 

you can’t let me go.