The inside of your throat is fully lined with silver
Where the plates meet there are seams of ancient gold, that was once old slivers of coins and has since been melted and painted on top of your organs and has become the tubes of your bloodstream, the molecules that faintly glimmer in your dark platelets
Like tiles on old church houses, nearly purple flakes of slate separate and cascade into the piles of dry  leaves
I hear pieces snap when I stand on them and it reminds me of how your voice cracks
It reminds me of stiffened folded pieces of dusty linens or fabric found in small wooden boxes with black over-painted hinges
You remind me of charms on charm bracelets, ones that are labelled with prices attached to pins which pierce through cheap looking velvet and thin padding
You are inexpensive and caged up
But we can see you, and like a modern tiger we hear your electronic yawns