'I can read you like a book'

Can you read me like a book?
Because if you can,
I must be written in Latin;
Some long-lost language you do not speak.
Or perhaps -
You are holding upside-down;
The wrong-way-round;
Or back-to-front.

Am I made of paper?
Is my skin a composition of wood-pulp,
Rice, and cotton?
Do you see my history
Running across collar-bones?
My thoughts printed over elbow;
Emotions scrawled upon my stomach?

No.
I have a spine.
Yes.
But that does not make me a novel,
Nor your novelty.
You cannot pick me up from the shelf
For light holiday-reading,
I am not here to excite your imagination;
I am not here for your entertainment.
My life is not fiction;
My future not fact;

So, do not say you can read me like a book,
Because books don’t have lungs or mouths or hands,
Books do not grow with the years they withstand.
But I do and I will.