My heart, my books, my notes, my thoughts, my breath, my love. My words, my words, my words. All of me.
“You are a writer,” you say, “Why don’t I get more love letters from you?”
You say these things because spoken words and texts and gifts seem not to be enough for you. Yet it feels as if you want to suck the marrow from my bones.
But you are my lover, not my librarian. I am not a treasure in the rare book room. No one handles me with soft hands and gloves on bare tables, with hushed voices.
So it seems you wish to plunder me, or rapaciously devour me. I am trotted out by you like a trained pet, something to show off to your friends. Like I have a biscuit balanced on the end of my nose, and I flip it into the air and catch it in my mouth, as you have taught me, although I really want to sink my teeth into your soft flesh instead of crunch on some stale treat you bought at Costco.
Sadly, the truth presents itself, as the truth always does. I am not a person anymore; I have become an accessory for you. Like shiny new shoes or an expensive handbag or a sparkling necklace.
“Look, she’s wearing the writer tonight.”
No, this love will not have a happy ending.
“And in the end, we were all just humans, drunk on the idea that love, only love, could heal our brokenness.” — Christopher Poindexter