The speaker says they love books, and the reason is simple: stories finish properly. Every ending is "tied up with a pretty bow," and nothing is left hanging. Real life, by contrast, offers "empty half-ever-afters," endings that never fully arrive and leave only questions, sorrow, pain and confusion. The phrase "screwed over" suggests the speaker has been hurt, probably by another person, and was never given an explanation.
The poem's short, clipped lines make it feel like a confession. The list of "sorrows / pain / confusion" drops down the page one word at a time, almost like a heavy sigh. The final two lines, "you don't have to wonder / you know," land flat and quiet, and they carry the real ache: the speaker isn't after a happy ending so much as the certainty of any ending at all. The title's "Ancient Artifact" and the bracketed word "Reality" add a wry touch, as if closure itself belongs in a museum. The mood is wistful, bitter, and a little lonely.