You
How does it feel
to be writing
the inside-out of you?

To be ripping the pages
of your book
and folding them
into shapes of origami?

To be squeezing out
the ink from those same pages
until you are left
with nothing but outlines
of the words that were
supposed to be.

Or worse---
nothing at all.
____ just ___ spaces.

Start from scratch.

How does it feel
to be able to read you?

To finish your sentences?
To decapitate your
petty attempts to
****** me
provoke me
destroy me?
To make you trip and fall
onewordaftertheother?
To fill in the spaces
of those outlines
of those words
that were supposed to be.

Or simply

CUT.                Y-O-U
                    O-F-F

And make you
sssssstttuuuuuutttteeeerrrr....

And leave you
In-between           these
                     (YOU)
                     lines

STUCK.

Start from scratch.

Are you not frightened
that my hands have
curiously
secretly
slipped into your soul?

To have them digging deep
as if they were immersed
into a bucket of grain
feeling each bit
distinctly cling
to your skin
hearing their awkward murmurs
slowly fade, fade away
as your fingers caress them?

And you drown---I drown
for a brief moment
in the arms of your soul.

How does it feel
to hold me close?

Close enough for you
to write the inside-out of me?

Start from scratch.

How does it feel
to start from scratch?