I am the daughter of Books.

Slowly, they are taking over my home,
my thoughts,
my car.

Always on my mind
and
in my backpack.

Bought with credit-
a means to prolong or extend the
experience of owning them (being owned by them).

Yesterday, I had a substantially, irrational
panic attack (considering the lack of urgency of my plight).
How can I transport
all of them with me when I
leave this place?

Who must I leave behind?

Each spine a personal reflection of my soul.
A detailed, purposeful account into my
thoughts and fears,
interests and requirements.

Heirlooms:
that bring me closer to the person
you were/are;
you will die soon.

But somehow, you parted with your
beloved shelves' content.

You believe the real pleasure
is in passing them on.

I suppose I haven't collected
a big enough stock-pile yet.
I do not yet own enough words to
propel a legacy.