Dandelion

Like a limb I can dismember,
Or take a door off its hinges,
The parts of me that are you,
I try to dismantle.

Unraveling in spools,
layers of skin,
wearing thin,
With nothing to hold it in,
like a sticker left glueless.

The parts of you that were me

crept up to my innards

unknown to me, stealthily

and now what's left in the entrails

which flaps about 

and that which slithers away.

I stare agape, confounded,

as I try to retrieve me:

 which parts are your blood

and where's my skin?

And the process begins 

of layering 

shoring up of my being

lest I collapse 

like a mountain of dandelion.