You like to say

that you can read me

like an open book.

I wonder

what you make

of the torn tattered pages

that are my soul.

And how you

see past your

distortions of experience

to find the faded print

telling my story.

Perhaps you take me

for a lighthearted novel,

or a heavy piece

of classic literature,

meant to last.

But once you've

ripped past

the excitement of my facade,

only to break

the ice of anticipation

and drown

in the depths

of my reality,

what will you say then?