origin story - a poem speaks

This is my question for you -
Is there a story, the story?
Do you actually remember how it all started?

Who am I ? Where did I come from?
Packed in neat little boxes,
my ‘stories’ have invariably been written
in black ink. Times New Roman. Font 12.
Glossy white paper.
Do you notice though
'About me' is always an about you.
Or is it the other way around?

'Fascinating stuff', that scrubby fellow had said.
the one who visited yesterday.
not to me. I doubt he could hear me.
the one who has the rights for your tell all.
about me. And some others.
(without my consent. or theirs.)

You told him over lunch,
how you looked for me.
in sweaty armpits of lovers
as much as strangers on the bus.
the jostling went on even after i came.
(You greedy bastard.
Always wanting.more.)

i could have been the midnight miracle
that headlined the out of print magazine -
or that forecasted monsoon
responsible for this year’s drought -
perhaps a temporary respite from boredom
crumpled and hidden away
when your company arrived
at the coffee shop.
(did you throw me away, and 
then come looking in
the desperation that only hope can muster
among filthy quarter plates and rotten food?)
was i the hurried patchwork
of discarded limbs and sinews
from all sorts of places
put together in slow painful deliberation
and then declared ‘functional’?

Oh, how you have boasted about
those fantastical adventures .
when you met me in kubla khan's dome.
wrestled me out of an alligator’s mouth
just in time.
dug me out of the grand canyon.
recognised me in a lost & found ad.
or was it the missing persons one?
 
Always playing to the audience.
Always playing me to the audience.
as if i were your personal whore
pimped at your fancy.
just like that.

and I travel
from one fine print to another
unsure whether you are my albatross
or i am yours.