Create me inside out so that they might know me better when I pull things inside. And the pieces I’ve touched might stick to me and I can swallow them up too. And they, familiar with my inside, might care for it closer and remember what was there. And the outside will be almost a Toyota Corolla. And they’ll peer through the windows to find my face and the music I play and the smells and the things I carry and let fall apart. Let me be outside in, digesting the pieces I could have presented and nurturing that tenderest conscious that is self. So that belly fat and pimples aren’t blasphemous intrusions but pieces of sand that polished the pieces of mind that mattered.
When I am ready, flip me back. And I will run my own fingers over my own skin and thank myself for holding in exactly what I wanted to show to everyone so that I may carry it and remember it and prove it to be everything. And I will have form and I will have figure and I will walk right side out and right side up and the whole world will remember me for the things that I used to drag around outside. And they’ll say, “That’s a pretty face, but remember what was behind those eyes?”