Intellectualization

I hear your voice; standard American, perfectly Midwestern, nothing out of the ordinary. Enchanted, I want more: I press play, I press pause; I rewind, and repeat. My eyes rest on your horn-rimmed glasses, on the lines around your smile, on your salt and pepper hair. you know me so well, though you don't know me at all. Tell me more about myself and about everyone else like me. Our thoughts are numbers on your scales, our pain reduced to aggregates, the cuts on our skin are graphs projected on the walls of a cold conference room one brisk Saturday morning. I could hate you. You butchered my beautiful chaos and packed the parts in sterile boxes. You look down on me from your lectern but, your eyes say something else. Do you really want to know? Ask me; I have no idea who I am.