My being is made up of words. Letters all pressed together like flower petals between the pages of a Dickens novel. These words, they give me my fingers, my lips, my eyelashes.

But I’m still being written. My arms, they gather these words up and add to my skin. I create my own heart, my own lungs from the pages of books and the speeches of men. The lyrics of a song make up the curves of my ear.

My chest holds novels and newsletters and journals telling tales of daytime and feathers. Poetry writes itself inside of me, along my veins. They are blue because the ink has bled into them.

Give me your words. Let them be the arch of my foot, the scar on my thigh. I could be a dictionary and I still wouldn’t be whole. Your words are the only words that can meet my need to be complete.

Speak to me. Finish this puzzle. I am only edges. You are the center piece.