my life is yet untitled
and i do not want your name
scrawled across the cover
when you did not
sit here, writing
for hours
through splattered ink
and broken lead
and calloused fingers
and cramping hand –
that was me.
yet i continue
to doodle your name
in the margins of my pages
i am slowly realizing
i am the author of this book
i am not obligated to you
i am pulling out my eraser
because i have work to do