I left.
What I left remained.
They bound my pages and announced that the book was bound for greatness.
I had been bound too— held inside an ending I had never written.
They screened my notes for the public and screened from the public the notes that contradicted them.
Under careful oversight, they catalogued every fragment.
Through an oversight, they mistook invention for my hand.
They sanctioned the reconstruction.
Then sanctioned me for calling it counterfeit.
They trimmed the finished book in black cloth and gilt—
after trimming from it everything I had left unfinished.
They clipped the pages together and clipped every passage that would not hold their shape.
They cleaved to my voice until no reader could cleave my voice from theirs.
They bolted the archive door.
I bolted.
My papers held fast beneath glass while their version of me spread fast beyond it.
They weathered every accusation.
My name was weathered by their defense.
A court order enjoined them to preserve my papers.
It enjoined me from touching them.
When the lights went out, the stars came out.
So did I.
They said they had finished my manuscript.
They had nearly finished me.
When I returned, they asked for one final refrain.
I gave them one:
Refrain.
A word can face both directions and remain correctly read.
So can a woman.