an open book

your words, like splinters, lodge under my skin,
paper flesh so thin, you can nearly read
the tangled blue script of my veins painted
on my wrists. and you do, from time to time.

struggling to unstitch the heart that you say
I've sewn to my right sleeve, I know not to
pick the scabs open, lest they scar deeper.
but my thoughts always etch themselves in ink,

try as I might, to scrub my face of all
feeling. I hate how easily you've learned
to unlace the taut binding of my spine,
sneaking looks at the pages of myself

I never meant for anyone to see.


a/n: living a cliché. June 12, 2010.