enamored of my words
enamored of my death
more so of my death than my words, maybe, I don't know.

No, I do know.
emotional over my crushed wordlings
elated over the characters' death
and the demise of their fallow joy
yet burning with their desires, jealous of their rapturous end
stomping on their eggshellled universe with your bare feet
yet crumbling inside with the decay of your own rectitude

you are gone you are gone you are gone you are gone you are not gone
wailing over good books, lying on the ground, letting purple grass seize you with the bad ones
reuniting with death, your estranged lover
still I can't disgorge you from myself, yet you have the audacity to glisten in my blood.

If an unhurt girl loves books and tolerates my own love for them then maybe she wouldn't kill me.

Maybe her love of books is my death anyways.