You can't feel my bones through this piece of wool.

Like a box frame with out it's canvas
I feel your touch slide down my structure
Fiddling my soul till it's
Shivering with little wounds.

And

You can't touch my beat through this rotten skin.

Like the hands of the brown baker's son
You wore my skin like kneaded dough bread
Poking little holes in me
Till I bloomed to combustion.

And

You can't see my soul through that spy glass.

Like the coated armor of the ant
With crevasses that the world can't see
Till you daggered down my chest
And you ate my insides clean.


(But the world can).

And I felt your hands under my feet
Soaking in your words that touched me so sweet.


'But, hey darling,' you told me,
'Your wool doesn't go so deep.'