Four months ago,
I told you to treat me gently,
and that I had a fragile binding.
and yet,
you were incessant on studying me,
burning with curiosity at my intro.

Three months ago,
I reminded you to take it slow,
and that there was no need to rush.
but instead,
you wanted to tear through my pages,
and skip what was a beautiful rising action.

Two months ago,
I pleaded with you that I was strange,
full of plot holes and bleak mysteries.
rather than return me,
you became fixated on my next chapter,
yearning deeply for the ******.


You were disappointed.


A month ago,
I tried my hardest to become your fairy tale,
and move past our disagreements.
But despite that,
you were consumed with regrets of me,
ignoring my falling constitution.


So as of yesterday,
I finally became the tragedy
you wanted of me.
a disastrous novel,
you finally found the end you were searching for...
              
                              ... that is, my own.