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“The Book of Myself”

I close the book of myself.
My language is not for you to read.
Of course there’s a place for you inside my heart:
You may listen to my pulse but not eye my words.
It’s not that I’m a keeper of secrets,
It’s not that I don’t love you,
It’s not that I’m human and want a sacred cave in which to hide,
But rather, that I am weary
Of holding the lantern to my hallways,
Translating my hieroglyphics into a slow alphabet
Of smiles and frowns.
My mouth wearies of its exercise,
Parroting my life, my self, my “see”
Of the known world.
I’ve spent so much time reading myself to you, it seems
I’ve lost my place.

But the bookmark, gilt in gold, reads:
I do not wish to be misunderstood,
So I prefer if you did not understand me
At all.

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