Subjects and Objects.

You psychoanalyzed me everyday.
My feelings were objects for you to study, so was my body
You traced my behavior and feelings as you wished and you interpreted them in the ways that suited the hypothesis of your world views.
You reduced my thoughts, my vulnerabilities to factors and consequence
You called them foolish, inexperienced, unreal.
I was not a human being to be treated with empathy
But with empirical and nonsensical data
Days you had no time, I could be pushed aside on your table, a book reference to pick up another day.
Someday you halfheartedly read a chapter or two, when I needed a response the most
The days I wanted to be left alone, you judged my pain and suffering and reduced it to temporary processes based on your own experience
To be objectified is bad enough, but to be patronized is worse.
Some days and nights I still wake up feeling like a repression in Itself
I’m not a field of study
I’m not data
I’m not as is
I am me, and I briefly forgot that when I was around you.