Open Book
(jacket of stories)
Janet Kuypers
8/30/15
I’ve put on my jacket.
I’ve set about my work.
It’s the same thing,
day after day,
I do my work, and...
everything feels heavier.
I don’t know
what is wrong with me,
I’m not sick
but I know I’m not well
and I know there’s
gotta be something
I can do about this.
It’s become so desperate
that I inject medication in me
to try to make the pain go away.
And I continue to work,
and the weight grows stronger.
Now, I know my soul,
I keep things hidden
but I’m otherwise
an open book —
I’ve worn my heart
on my sleeve,
and even kept a tissue
when the weight was too strong.
My book fills libraries.
It’s a never-ending epic.
And I look through the pages,
I look deep inside of me.
I scan the pages.
I scour the text.
And for the life of me,
I can’t find what ails me.
And as I said,
I’m an open book —
so someone should be able
to break the code of me
and figure me out
once and for all.
And all I get
are blank stares.
No one else seems
to have the answers,
so
I continue my work,
until I realize
that my jacket —
that my book jacket —
that this open book
becomes the burden.
Not because
of what I write,
but because the answers
may be buried so deep
in the reams
of written word
that no one will be able
to unlock the key
to figure out
what is truly me.
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