i swear some nights i wake up and it’s like a sick nightmare. people knock on my hips with their knuckles, noticing only the lack of flesh and the hardness of the bone that my skin is anchored to. what they don’t see are the scars, spider-web-woven letters carved with razor sharp fingernails and trailing from bone to bone and around my waist and up my spine to my neck. they can’t feel the heat burning in every skin cell along the trail, the taste of warm blood coating my tongue whenever another person’s fingertips graze old burns. they can’t smell the wanting.
they can’t hear the words whispering like turning pages over my body, paper cuts saying i can not believe this happened, that these bruises still spill from tiny broken veins across your cream shell, that the shadows of graffiti scrawled across your corners still show through your tissue paper flesh.
they don’t know about the profanity of what was tattooed there once, black-inked curses that bled onto my fists late at night when i hammered my bones like a drum. any reference to despair is written off as self-destruction, and maybe it was, but there are things that need to be destroyed. the disbelief only lends more evidence to the truth, the denial in itself enough to prove the reality of every word that was etched in the small blank spaces between each chapter of the story.
but to them, they will always be only bones that stick out like flightless wings to make room for another tiny body, one with blank hips waiting to be written upon and stretched until their wrapper is pulled thin across their frame.