Claustrum

Take your pumice stone of words and start to rub on my skull.

Rub and rub till my hair magnetizes,

Rub and rub till it is pulled off its roots.

Rub so you feel the friction of your stone against the hardness of my bone.

Erode so your rock glides over the smoothness of my brain, precipitating your control over my consciousness.

There, I am yours now, your touch in my, is my head

But alas, before you get to my soul--

I will be long dead.