you are inscrutable

and illegible-

I Can't Read You.

while you're thumbing

through my pages and

running a finger down

my spine

('cause i've always been


i struggle to decipher your first


We are books lined up

shelf by shelf;

i have never appreciated

too much time

with just myself.

you know it,

you exploit it,

you leave me making

parchment tourniquets

to immobilize

those stains

that spread like

spider webs,

or crooked hands.

(i bleed blue ink,

you bleed black.)

we exist only

at the typesetter's