I wish she would finish me. I miss her gentle grip on my pages as she turns them. She was always so careful not to tear me. There were some days when she read me for hours, hardly stopping. She would turn page after page after page. I could feel her eyes burning into me, memorizing me, falling in love with me. She started reading me less and less though. It became thirty minutes here or thirty minutes there. She’d skim a page or two and set me face down on the windowsill, leaving me nearly suffocating for days until she remembered to pick me back up and read another few paragraphs. She started putting me in her bag instead of carrying me in her hand. She shoved me in , jostling me, bending the corners of my covers. I thought that her putting me in her bag and taking me places might mean that she wanted to show me the world that she wanted to read me in faraway locations so that we could experience adventures together. Really it just meant that she was bringing me to work in case she had a few spare moments of down time. She never did. I sat there in her bag for weeks on end until her water bottle leaked and drenched everything, including me. I was soaking. The water consumed me, crawling up each of my pages. It was cold. I felt mushy, as I waited for her to save me. She took me out of her bag and laid me on a shelf in her room. She didn’t dry me. She didn’t really save me. She left me there. I wish she would finish me. I wish she would touch me, open me, read me. I miss her.
Prompt: Write a stream of consciousness piece that gives a voice to an object that does not typically have a voice.
(I’m back to teaching creative writing, so enjoy the occasional prompt that I do with my students.)