who wrote the book of love

i'm much better at crying than i ever thought i was. much quicker and easier. much weaker.

so sensitive. toeing to the rules and breaking over them.

you refuse to fault me; you say i was conditioned. you say you're just crying for me. but you're allowed to be irritated - it's imperative that you are! you can't be unbothered. please, oh please, not unbothered.

YOU CAN'T CARE ABOUT ME!

i said, and i meant it. but you have to care about yourself enough to refuse this treatment. don't you understand?

you can't care about me. i can't care about me. i have to remove and recuse and excuse myself, and you can't make up excuses for me.

because i, like the scapegoat, who died swallowing the blame, must absorb all the sins and surrender my name. i have to do it, or no one else will.

no one else can. no one else will.

you need to judge me. you can't be impassive. you need to take action and actively hate.

that's what it says in the book. you have to do something.

you cannot be praised for inaction. in fact, you cannot be praised at all.

praise. rewards. affection. acceptance.

these weren't in the book.

games, points, goals, projection.

and these weren't even written in the book.

invisible walls, familiar at my fingertips. my palms strike them and sting numb and breathe in the structure.

the book says you must not be an obstacle. you must be helpful. you must not choose your friends. you must fall in the line.

and i'm doing that. i'm doing that now!

i'm doing everything right.

i'm doing everything wrong.

and there isn't a book. but i need a book. no one else will - no one else can - but i need to follow the book.

the book tells me when to hide. when to speak, open and close. when to retort. when to jaw my trap shut. the book tells me how to construct my sentiment, so i'm feeling and thinking all the right things.

the book tells me that when i feel mistreated, rather than redress, i should shrink and mute. disappear. disintegrate. and this is, of course, sensible. i cannot cause undue trouble.

but i'm not so good at this. i thrash about and i contort myself into a translation of best intentions, and i'm so loud, so needy, so childish, so underfed and overgrown. the book does not refer to snotty tears. the book has no tears at all.

the book has no tears, where pages were removed. the book has no pages at all.

the book is unreadable, illegible and infeasible.

the book is an image of conduct unseasonable.

the book is a bible of derivative origin for throwing at the heads of those who draw near.

not redress, but isolation. not attack, but self-defense.

love, angel of terror, insurmountable force, surrounds me, refusing to shrink away. even when i hit. even when i scream.

and that wasn't in the book-
i said THAT WASN'T IN THE BOOK!