At the Spine

Fidgety fingers can't restrain these ideas,
prematurely pried from my delicate depths.

Ocean-like and foreign, each one tumbles
to the table, flops, and flutters,
turning violent in its struggle as it finds
it lacks the lungs to breathe.

These are the lies I told you,
suffocating, gasping, withering, dying.
These, my creations, have lost all their colors,
their textures -- the things I found so soothing.

You against them, me against you --
entangled at the surface, my choices are clear.

Deeply, darkly, deliberately, I cut the line.
So many lines attached,
I take your knees out at the spine.
You never should have messed with my ideas.