The Library of Unwritten Revolutions

The books here breathe—

spines cracking with the weight

of words their authors swallowed:

*How to Poison a King and Smile at the Funeral*

(annotated in menstrual blood),

*Atlas Shrugged* (revised edition:

*She Finally Dropped the Damn Thing*),

a child’s primer titled

*Your Body is Not an Apology*

with the corners dog-eared

by small, insistent hands.

**Special Collections:**

A locked case of knives

disguised as corset laces,

each blade etched with names—

*Medusa’s Hairpin, Joan’s Last Letter,

The Scream We Mistook for Hysteria.*

The librarian wears fingerless gloves

to turn the pages.

Her silence costs more

than the bishop’s forgiveness.

**Reading Room Rules:**

1. No gaslighting in the stacks.

2. All tears must be weaponized.

3. If a chapter feels familiar,

it’s because your grandmother

whispered it to you in a dream

while stitching your mouth shut.

They say Joan of Arc visits

on full moons, reshelving biographies

that call her *hysteric* instead of *holy*.

Her shadow burns the carpet.

No one fines her.

**Due Date:**

When the last girl learns

to read her own spine

like a declaration.

(Overdue notices will be delivered

via wildfire,

via brick through the window,

via daughters who ask *"Why?"*

and refuse to look away.)