If I could reach through to the inside of you and pull you out, pull the very insides of you out for all the world to see, you would look like nothing more than a bundle of paper bags gone brittle with age.
If I could grab hold of you and give you a shake, I imagine that something of you would come out, like salt or glitter, scattered to the four winds, spilled and then gone; there can’t be much of you left, I suppose.
If I could cut into you, into the beating heart of you, I don’t think you would scream in pain so much as you might in fear of being found out. I think you’re mostly hollow inside, with the last of the scrapings of something else left behind.
If I could let you go, I think you’d blow away and finally leave me be.