Performed at Popcycles, Lincoln High School’s annual talent show, October 2022

What a plot twist you were.
You ripped out a page in the middle of my book and put in several of your own.
A couple of quickly scribbled pieces of paper,
you stapled them to the next page and hoped I wouldn't notice.

What a plot twist you were.
I found an inconsistency a year later, a page sticking out slightly.
I was further along in my book,
writing new chapters and introducing new characters.
I started to read them back.
I realized how different these pages were from my own.
They stick out so clearly to me now.
I don't know how I didn't find them before.

What a plot twist you were.
At first, I left your pages in my book.
They don't affect me.
I'll accept them as a part of my story and move on.
You wrote this, and I was ok with that.
A few months into ignoring your words,
I realized how much they took my book off of the original plot.
My chapters would end in the middle of a sentence, incoherent and distracted.
I would flip back in the book and read the lines about better times,
idolizing the sentences where my life seemed perfect.
I started to think that I should end the book over the bathroom sink,
tearing out pages in a rush and just getting it over with.
What's the point of this book if the stories in it aren't truly mine?

What a plot twist you were.
It took me so long to rip your pages out.
Your staple took chapters with it, leaving the spine creased and worn.
But when I finally did, the book was mine to write in again.
The tears are still there.
I'll notice them less and less with time.
I'll write new chapters with new people.
Because I am the author, the editor, and the reader.
I am the publisher.
I get the final say.
This is my story.