I am not the skeletons.


Does that scare you?


Some would say time will make me torn

but I do not speak in wants

I speak in now.


I own a life half-lived even if I don’t want it in my house anymore

I tried to sell it

turns out it doesn’t look like what the wanderers wanted.


They spoke of things they will never see,

sea glass and silence to keep in boxes and matches that snap like those bones but


I am not the skeletons.


Even though part of me is still

stuck in the closet


I swallow my skin every day I face it

but sometimes shut it out,

I make me much more savage than the jagged points

of a girl who is less than human.


Just because I didn’t want this

doesn’t mean I shouldn’t step high

because if I didn’t have language

if I was born to be an artist

I would still paint these bodies to life

and they would be covered in what the skeletons want.


I am much more skin than I want to be

and not brave enough to trust

that my bones will catch me if the bridge decides I am done.


Even though part of me is still

stuck in the closet


I am not the skeletons.


I can drink without becoming a waterfall

I do not want to be that kind of messy

but this.


These sharp-witted statues march in a row.


The alleys I split my soul to run in so I can be everywhere at once.


The pens I keep thinking I have run out of until another ends up on my doorstep.


These conquests my heart still holds though I couldn’t save them.


The risks I will take because I am exactly what they want to be.


Maybe I am made of the same.


I am still not the skeletons.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 7/14/20

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