I wasn't another code for you to crack.
My life isn't another book you can rip from my mouth
and throw on the shelf.
I shook off my dust cover for you,
but you sneezed and laughed it off.
Will I ever be enough?
You were in love with novels,
and so mine was convenient.
Will I ever get it back?
Take a look at your account. Those fines are adding up.
And I'm afraid your destruction will stem
from the pieces you read,
you loved,
you kept.
Here's the fault with getting involved:
You don't know yourself.
Instead you tore out my pages,
and threw me on the shelf.