It’s like you dissected me, exposed me, beginning with the heart
and slowly working backward through the ribs, the dermis
Your idea of love is a poem you’ll never write.
then outward leaving notes in my skin with your scalpel
and delete line after line until you find one that strikes
You stand at the door, texting while I’m at work
leaving directions for the next woman to search for
a treasure you say they’ll never find.