the pen and i

My pen’s a tool of imprecision
complicating blankness with word incisions
that may miss their mark
though that may be the art
of writing down those things
you’re afraid to

Perched on a bench like a bookshelf,
passers-by read my spine
looking for something worth their time,
so even thoughts become capital,
a penny apiece,
and my body camouflages its self
with skin whose opacity
is a delight to touch
but won’t let you in
without that pen,
(as I was saying)
its incisions.

They reveal the real
machinery of humanity
but lack appeal when you learn
exploring might get you bloody,
covered in red ink, black ink,
an indecipherable history
scratching lines in the sand,
or serifs on the page
in the hopes that someone
might understand
the reasons you wish
you were inside-out:
you’d either be lonely, or never without.