The Weight of my Guillotine

this is not my story

I sleep tucked into the pages of a book with bank receipts and pictures of dogs or flowers.
Or blank pieces of card.
My head rested on the bumps of soft ‘a’s and blanketed in tragically beautiful passages pulled up to my chin.
Ones that tell the truth in disguise
Softened
Sometimes i will feel like i am falling, falling into a different part of my story, but i will wake up and hit my head on the page above me.
And realise i must remain where i am.
But i can read the page i am on and take comfort in the fact that this is not a stephen king novel.
Even though i struggle against an unconvincing cause to rewrite the words
This is narrative told about me
I must remain a character in a story i have no control over.
That is,
Until i learn to write.