A Poem: Collective Privacy

For now, I have less than 287 pages worth of private space.
In between the covers of a novel or a novella,
a memoir, a tell-all; posthumously published books of all kinds
are where I find my private space which is limited.

Space is limited, in my life as a daughter,
a devoted student, a creative who begins a task with fervor
without turning out my efforts from the last one.
Space is limited in my life as a multitasker,

where something is always happening. Where
I invest my private space towards whatever it is that I’m doing
which is fine. Because I bore easily. Because my cross to bear is
intellectual. Restless. Monstrous. Passionate.

In my collective privacy, I am both feminine and masculine,
young and old; either, without design. I grow there:
in all of my private spaces, I grow. Personalities,
situations, experiences knit themselves into my being.

Although there, in my private space, I am in someone else’s company,
it is like being home. In one’s living room that is rarely inhabited by one.
So it is fine. In my private space I seek comfort, understanding, the
fruit of knowledge. In my private space, I don’t exist— I am still—
looking on, enraptured, until the book ends.
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Thanks for reading my work! If you’re interested in reading more about this piece and it’s meaning, I write in more about it here, on Goodreads! I’d love to connect with you there (or here) and read your writing too!
Take care and keep in touch,

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NOTE: This is an 100% original work under copyright! You may NOT copy any of this (in whole or in part) without clearly stating that the poem was written by me, in addition to referencing back to this post. Thank you!