I came home one day to find you reading a book that was written about me.
It was written by some doctors who have never met me,
and it attempted to explain why I am the way I am.
It had an ugly cover. By the look on your face,
I could tell that it didn’t help you to see me like that
spread across the pages / dismembered into chapters / chunks of me
dissected into symptoms / boiled down to alarming statistics / my soul
turned into science by strangers. You’d made notes. Lots and lots of notes.
I picked the notes out of your hand and up off the floor and set them on fire.
You were impressed and annoyed all at once but mostly you were in love.
You told me that you were never going to leave me, even if I told you to / even
if I let you. I asked you if the textbook told you to say that. The smoke alarm
was shrieking. You picked a piece of burnt paper out of my hair and shook
your head. The textbook was never seen again.

Originally published at Selcouth Station(July 2021) – 

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