My face peels as if getting to the middle
of a twisted plot, my spine is sore,
I’m used too much, I’ve got finger stains
from every one whose ever touched me.
Some of my inside is missing, how does one
come to the ending of things
if you have to keep skipping the important parts;
It doesn’t matter really, you get the gist of what I’m saying. I’m worn and lightweight
as a paperback laid out on a summer day.
You read my expressions plainly; your eyes
skimming over the poor grammar, you say “
I want to write myself in your story
“ and scribble your name on my arm.