Most of us – A poem

All you see of me is skin.
And even then you don’t see all of that.
Most of it is draped in fabrics and threads
And even the parts you do see
Are still sometimes covered.
But you see,
Most of me
Is inside of me.
You can’t unzip my skin
And spill out its contents
(although sometimes I wish you could.
it might be easier that way.)
You can’t see my muscle
And how strong I really am.
You cant see the lively
Lovely colours bubbling along
The rivers of my veins
That feed life into my face,
And you can’t see the bones
That keep me standing.
But I will try and show it to you
if you ask the right questions.
I will feed myself to you
In my creations
Built and moulded
Into sculptures
With my blood and my tears
And the prints left by my fingertips
When you hold them to the light
And when I drop these creations onto your tongue,
Suddenly,
Less of me
Is inside of me.
And you can finally get a taste.

Most of them
Is inside of them
And most of you
Is inside of you
Until
I ask the right questions
And your lips part
To open a door
To the underground fantasy
That is the rest of you.
But by then it’s no longer a fantasy.

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