I told him:
I have always been
a creature of paper.
Hair made of ink, fingers
grey as graphite.
I smeared myself over those pages
and closed them up in rough-skinned bindings:
that book was my sanctuary.
who had free reign over me,
who I trusted most in all the world
You burned down the walls and strode inside.

I never said I'd open
my pages to you
I never said I'd let you
into my head
I only said I'd love you
for a while, as best I could.

But that was no book you were turning over
page by page.
That was my
love, my sadness, my rage.
That was my doubt
cover to cover
I never said you could look inside me like that, but

didn't seem to notice
that this act of mistrust
would ruin
more than it would save.