When I tell you what I’m thinking…

You claim you've abandoned all forethought
But hold your icy glare
That peruses the pages of my mind 
As I lay them naked and bare 

In the margins you make footnotes
Reducing every epiphany to a 
Mere epistle 
You weave your heart into a blanket
That pricks my skin with thorns and thistles 

You conjure remedies for wounds
That previously were never there
Scarring my soft tissue
Damaging it beyond Love's repair