One day they will open up your books
and wonder what you were waiting for
They will read into your self contradicting sentences
And write out volumes of dusty literary criticism
They will look for patterns in your poetry
And catalogue your plosives, fricatives, dentals, bilabials, glottals.
They will search your diaries for imaginary passions
And friendships that went deeper than you claimed
They will invent exotic histories of your life
And label what must have been your diseases.
They will forget that you were a person
Who made wishes on her candles every birthday.