The Dead Girl's Book

It is not the author's fault
That these pages and this binding
Were gifted to me from a girl
Whose mind was then unwinding
The blame cannot be pinned against
The story or the ink
But to the girl who, last night, found
Her own way to the sink.

My tears came through like bottle glass,
Cut veins along their way
So I could bleed to match her need
And cry to match her say
The paragraphs burned power shafts
Into my chest and pores
The narrator is screaming now
A voice that once was yours

It is not the author's fault
What's written on your wrists
This story has been told for days
Before it made your lists
But for this book, this one and only
From your hands to mine
It sets aflame the blame for why
Your face is ice in time.

And maybe one day, I will sift
The oil from the tears
Remember this narrator can
Live past your line for years
But this one book, this single one
Can to new hands allow
For they won't know that this one book
Belongs to the dead girl now.