Strikethrough

They say scribbling is unprofessional,
that a single line, blue
or black ink to obliterate
an unfitting word or phrase shows
to the trained eye
your unwillingness to hide. Problem
is you can still see that thought,
struck-through as if shot, bleeding,
crying out a right to be known,
stapled to the paper.
It feels like you fit. Long fingers
braided like honey rope in mine, sweetly
stale breath, the rumble and hiss
through each nostril, the cool tang
of cucumber hair. To slice through this-- blue
or black ink, professional, the traditional
description of bruised-- how will I hide
you now? Reading forward you are still
there: no scribbling, your thought,
the thought of you, fixed always
under a single line, blue
or black ink, bleeding through the blotter.