They call me a bookworm—

a wriggling green insect 

with glasses that slide down

its noseless face, eating away 

at every page it inches over, 

hiding between the covers

to avoid the outside world. 

This picture is only partly true

I am no lonely worm, 

naive and secluded,

but a traveler and wanderer

who finds constant company

in the turn of a page.

I know what it is 

to be hungover 

after drinking in worlds 

that aren’t my own, 

sucking every last drop

from another life 

and then desperately

wishing for more.

I know how it feels

to live a hundred lives,

dying every time 

I turn the last page.