Autobiography

What I need today is for you to read me:
to stop writing your own notes in my columns,
to stop editorialising me,
discussing me in absentia,
like some poorly prepared school report.
I am not your gossip rag,
for you to wipe your mouth on,
to tell my story as if you own it,
behind cupped hands and shielded eyes.
My days are not pages to be dog-eared,
so you can remember where to return to.
My heart won’t stop for your bookmark consideration.
I won’t stay still for long enough to be forgotten on your bedside table.
I need you to stop reading me selectively,
like some zealot’s favourite scripture,
so you can tell yourself the story of me as you like it.
I am not a paperweight to hold your scribbles down.
I am not a wedge to keep doors open for you,
or to keep your table level.
I am not a prop for you to sit on,
or to rest your cup on.
My story is alive and still being told.
I won’t be treated as so much scrap paper.
I will not gather dust if you avoid reading me.
I will not be left in some forgotten drawer.
Read or go.
Your choice.

-o0o-