Oh, but the words
that drive claws into your chest and rake downward. That hit you like a thunderclap
and physically drive you away from the page— On the train, you let it all fall,
the book into your lap and your head against the seat. At your dining room
table, you stand up, shaking your head, refusing. The words that catch your arm
and pull you back. You find yourself seeing through the page the way you see
through faces. I know you. I know you. Hurts, doesn’t it?
Don’t do this to me. I’ll do it to you. I might, but I don’t know how.
Don’t do this to me. I’ll do it to you. I might, but I don’t know how.
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