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.