I can still feel you under my skin
and it makes me shiver.
If you took a scalpel and sliced lengthwise
up each of my arms
and pulled back the skin from the muscle
there you'd be.
A layer of you spread out oh-so-thinly
where no one should ever be
unless I say so.
Keep your clever comments,
self-serving compliments
and conceited charm.
I know I don't want them.
You thought you'd convinced me,
like I'm so easily convinced,
but I knew.
You wanted to take
what was not yours to take,
but only mine to give.
So get out from under my skin.
Doesn't matter.
Even if you don't want to,
you'll ooze out of my pores eventually.
And then I'll scrub myself clean of you
with exfoliant,
or a loofah,
or a pumice stone,
leaving only raw, naked skin
behind.