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By Melissa Hazlewood

You who balances my bundled pages in the net of your fingers?
You who worries not about the glue in the spine
and bends back the cover anyway?
Do you barely get through a paragraph before deciding
you absolutely hate my voice?
Do your eyes burn at every oddly phrased sentence
you’re sure you could have written better?
Does your finger easily miss my name
while picking a book off your shelf to lend to a friend?
Are you that person?
Or are your copies of my books taped on every page and underlined
where the words made your throat go dry?
Do you turn the bookstore inside out looking
for more from my mouth and my pen?
Do you let out a bittersweet breath at my last page?
Do you lie paralyzed when it’s over, like you lived and died another life?

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