Read me.
A hardbound book alone in a shelf.
So rough, tough, and ugly.
Covered by cobwebs and dust.
A book hidden among thousands of others.
A story so old as eighteen years.
You found me.
Finally pulling me out of my misery.
I opened my pages to you.
You saw my words, my story, my plot, my feelings.
Did you like it?
Did you like me?
Is my story enough for you to keep the pages turning?
Am I enough?
Will you hang on to my every word?
Or will you skip my paragraphs that bore you?
Would you judge me by my cover?
By my title?
Would you put me back to my shelf?
A bookmark.
You suddenly closed me, stuck in the first chapter.
An unfinished paragraph at the twentieth page.
Would you still come back and continue where you left off?
Am I not worth reading?
Am I just a simple book during your free time?
Would you choose another book?
A story with a plot more interesting than mine?
Read me.
Even with torn pages and ugly covers.
Even with boring words and empty spaces.
Read me until the end.
Not my last page and last cover.
Not my last word at the last paragraph.
But my last breath.
The end.