Deconstruction

Her text, her body. Her groin, her elbows. Between them are the words I told her. I say: "Come with me." She does not answer. My stare cuts her to pieces, revealing the good and the bad; the beautiful and the ugly. I want to amputate the imperfections and sew her back together again. I want her to be perfect. But I am not God. I cannot do it. "You look ragged," I tell her. I read her again, from top to bottom and back to the top. I reinvent her. I reconstruct her. "Who are you really?" I ask her. What does she really mean? This is my deconstruction.