You ask why I enjoy the book,

Why I would spare a second look

At what you call “just words on paper,”

A pointless, silent, static caper.

But I don't see a scribbled line,

I see a world that is now mine.

The page, a portal, thin and wide,

Where I can step my soul inside.

I am not me for a little while.

I cross the sea, I climb the stile.

I am the Don's most treasured wife,

Who commands his dangerous life.

I am the wolf, with moon-blessed blood,

Who finds her mate within the wood.

I am the girl, bullied and shy,

Whose tears will make the tough boy cry.

I am Feyre, powerful and feared,

By a faerie lord, beloved and revered.

These paper words are not a chain;

They are the sun after the rain.

They are the key to different skies,

Seen through a thousand different eyes.

I am the CEO, sharp and grand,

Or the wife who holds the don's command.

My marriage is a sealed design,

To a Russian or Italian line,

And he is obsessed, his soul is bound

To every step on this new ground.

I am a queen. I am a power.

I live a lifetime in an hour.

I leave this world, its weight, its strife,

To taste a thousand different lives.

So you see the words, a simple sight.

But I see worlds of pure, wild light.

You ask me why I'd want to look?

It's not a page... it's all I took.

It's not a page... it's my escape.

It's not a page... it's my own shape.