Come on, read me.
Slip beneath my dust jacket,
between my lines, just like
you think you can.

Split my ink into its colours.
See me spread before you, fragile
as the tissue paper, true hues
laid bare in rings around
my darkened centre -
watch them grow.

Pick my metaphor to bits,
and see each figure of my speech
dismantled to its elements, for
what it's worth.

Pull this unreal character
limb from literary limb, with
sinews of ideas left for a closer
scrutiny - colder than

the page between your fingers.