Am I a book, that you should break my spine,
and make my back more flexible to fit
your palms, that you might with a bit more ease
journey with me held in a single hand,
or mark my memories you find most grand
by creasing triangles on certain leaves,
so in my normal state my mind will flit
impulsively to these, as though they shine
as strongly for myself as for you? No.
You sha’n’t unstick the saddle-stitches’ glow,
dislodging dusty chapters found unfair,
or characters for whom you do not care.
But most of all, no matter how perplexed,
don’t ever flip ahead to see what’s next.