They used to love me, he said.
I know, I replied.
I talked to God even as they threw him out on the street,
Bloody and broken,
As they destroyed his home and turned their backs on him.
I forgot about him for a while.
My father died of sickness, my sister ran away,
But me? I was left for dead, my mother’s footprints pointing the other way.
You used to love me, I told him.
I do, he replied.
But I didn’t listen.
I talked to him as he abandoned me,
Bloody and broken,
As he destroyed my life and turned his back on me.

She asked me how I came to be here.
He used to love me, I said. Now he doesn’t.
You’re wrong, she replied.
But I didn’t listen.
I took the book and threw it into the rain, the ink bleeding through the pages,
The leather binding broken and overused.
As it hit the ground, a page was torn, soaking up water,
Delicate, easily ripped apart by the harsh raindrops of life.
I forgot about it for a while.
But it came back, as all persistent things do,
It washed up on the shores of my life,
The leather binding ruined, the pages waterlogged,
But clean of the ink stains I’d made, old notes I’d written.
I picked it up, the cover familiar in my hand, the hardwood digging into my knees.
I used to love you, I told him
I know, he replied.
I think I could do it again, I said.
I know you can, he replied. Because I always have.