I know books are supposed to be cherished.
No cracking the spine, no dog-earring the pages. No dropping Bloomability in your grandma’s pool.
No throwing them at your social worker. No ripping out the page that Allie dies, no blacking out the lines that hurt too much. No stabbing The Great Gatsby with a ballpoint pen in the middle of English class until Ms. Grimes sends you to the office.
No putting stickers on the parts of the cover that you don’t like. No highlighting everything that Johnny says like a Red Letter Outsiders. No writing die die die in the margins during the battle scene.
My books look like they’ve been shoved in back pockets and kicked against hospital walls. Maybe not cherished, maybe loved. I hope they don’t mind being dragged through my disorganized angry life.
Yes. This. I dog ear my books, and write in them. I shove them into my bag with my keys and my wallet and my chapstick, I lay them in the grass while I read in my back yard, I hold the pages open with greasy fingers, I get sand in them and sunscreen on them at the beach, and I have, from time time, accidentally spit on them when LOLing too hard. My books? Loved. Loved hard.