Dog-eared, tattoos of your name
on my skin like scribbles in the margins of a book, Belongs to… imprinted
on every aspect of my life.
You've forced me open many times,
drawing out stories,
highlighting imperfections like keywords
you must remember for the next test.
People tell me that the most used books
are the most loved,
but all it takes to remind me is the morning-after ache, the bitter aftertaste.
I am not a book. You love not bound pages
but a woman bound by her love for you.
