I am the story that has become a chore to edit. My hardback so ironically attached to my soft story. No one asks if I have spelling errors because that requires a willingness to open me. A willingness to read me. I’m the commitment you just can’t handle as you manhandled my heart I grabbed that handle to take me elsewhere having slipped from bed as sleep slipped from me. Yes, sweetheart, I am an unapologetic insomniac but you that because its too easy to teach the clouds to rain in the dark. Because you saw my tears as young skinny girls hiking up their skirts. Because I care about the fact that you felt the need to tell me “don’t worry, I like big girls”. As if your hands weren’t already unwelcome as you skim my pages like my knuckles skim the wall, and yes, darling, I lied. There was some slip tripping trip slipping when I showered that night, I fell but that was long before you finished painting my hand in the colours that carve my favourite time of night. So beautifully enhancing the stars, but destined to be covered when covering human skin. No one read me for fear of what you wrote. I am the words you wanted to shout at the drunk man pretending to resemble your father when he downgraded your mother, choosing her; judging who passes the test by if his hand fits round her neck; why buy a new rock when you can make the woman fit the old one? You ran with a pen along my pages but my pages can’t run as you stapled us stuck we are stationary surrendering then stop. Watch. As my mind whirls to the prospect of lost and found. I am a lost piece thumbed at and flung aside by all the people who I don’t belong to. Who do I belong to?