I was a book with burnt edges
and tattered cover
opened and laid flat
for examination purposes.
You read me out loud
like all my complexities
could be contained in a few
of your stereotypical phrases.
You spelled me out as if
you could predict my actions,
but I will not conform
to your predefined binding.
When my pages did not correspond
with this self-created fantasy
of how I should read,
you violently tore them out.
And when you reached the end
of your criticisms all that was left
was the spine of a woman...
with no content.
___________
© Jessica R.
_________________
Author's Comments
Rewritten and dedicated to Afzal Shauq
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem