You are not welcome in this library. Not to linger, not to learn, not to touch a single volume with your unexamined hands. I once admired your collection, lost in the illusion that my own shelves could mirror your fleeting facade. But I have deduced, after ruthless inquiry, that you never truly tended to your own texts. You were too busy cataloging the narratives of others. And that’s not honest scholarship. That’s just a cross-reference to avoid doing your own work. Your pages began to yellow, and I stopped checking for your return because your careless hands tore the very paper of my truth. How could you be proud? You are an archivist who gets around. You indexed so freely, so generously, yet your time was consumed in countless other archives. Your so-called care, at some point, became nothing more than a fiction.
You became a master of appearances. Pruning away the pages of truth to mask your intentions. You gave bookmarks to chaos while ignoring the footnotes of your own tension. You called it growth, but it was nothing more than overextension. And I stayed. I stayed bound, my spine enduring storms you never even noticed. I remained rooted when the winds of your convenience tried to tear my cover while you were busy offering excerpts to people who never knew how to read past the first chapter. That’s not abundance. That’s just being spread thin. That’s not a harvest. That’s just showing up again and again without ever bothering to check the index. I learned a sacred truth in the stillness of my spine: that not every hand is meant to hold my binding. Not every admirer is fit to study or to shelve me. Some only love a narrative when it’s trending in June, but abandon the volume in November’s quiet gloom.
So now, this library has an unyielding protocol. A sign now reads, “Do Not Enter Without Reverence.” This isn’t about aesthetics. It’s about energy. About the dust you leave behind when you’ve taken what you wanted. You left fingerprints on my pages, my narrative scattered and my conclusion unresolved. You praised my beauty but never once asked about the process that wrote me. So don’t return with apologies bound in shallow paper. Don’t offer peace in your mouth and poison in your pages. I know the scent of neglect now, and it clings to you like old dust. I have learned what care looks like, a love that indexes every single page, and you never even opened the book.
I built this sanctuary brick by brick, in the dark, with nothing but blistered hands, tired knees, and the will to survive. I don't need your pity. I need peace. I don't need your company. I need clarity. I don't need your half-hearted cataloging. I need sincerity. So no. You are no longer a part of this collection. You had your chance when the front door was wide open, but now you are left with the silence of the archives. This library still stands, still blooms, still breathes, still rises from the dust and dares to believe. But it does so without you. And that is the most beautiful part of all.
So, don’t check me out. Don’t spend a single moment debating my value or trying to rationalize why another volume might better suit your collection. I was never meant to be compared. I was built to be chosen. Love isn't a catalog, a list of pros and cons, or a side-by-side spreadsheet of who is easier to bind. I am not made of paper, baby. I am flesh, spirit, and a little bit of fire. And you don't analyze a fire. You either respect it, or you burn.
Don't treat me like a backup selection, gathering dust on the shelf of your indecision. If my presence doesn’t feel like a priority in your library, then my absence will teach you what a priority feels like. I am not a footnote in your margins. I am the title on the cover in bold. I am not a rare text you only consult when your spirit is broken. My value is not discounted. It is not seasonal labor. It is a permanent collection, and it demands acknowledgment, not convenience.
The next time you debate whether my worth fits into your convenience, remember this: you cannot bargain with what is priceless. You cannot discount what is divine. And if my name makes it to your catalog of choices, let it be also the name you cannot walk away from. Because if I am an option, don't check me out. I was never built for deliberation. I was built to be honored, to be chosen with certainty and treasured with no hesitation.
So if your connection requires rationalization, if your respect for my submission comes with hesitation, then step aside. Because I don't sit on a shelf waiting to be picked. I am already chosen—by peace, by purpose, by my own truth. And that kind of choosing can never be reduced to an option.
*Inspired by Seasoned Dialogue