To be self-contained

Maybe it's best
to be self-contained,
words wrapped in body,
memories in photo frames
made of femur bones--
laughter in storage
in deepest recesses,
dances in stasis
beneath placid skin--
to leave my walls stripped
of their posters and poems,
my head of its hair
my gait of its bounce
and my neck of its necklaces-- 
to rip the heart from my sleeve
and stuff it back
into my stolid ribcage.
So put your hands on my breast,
push hard
to help the latches close.
Take care not to catch your fingers.