Your eye swims in ink. Whipstitched.

I hate the way your face looks when you tell a lie.

Staples in flesh remind me of ripe fruit, too soft to hold without crushing.

I’m so used to assessing, when I try to sleep I see a map of your contusions.

When I get up in the morning, all I can think is that you’re always and forever lost and you want to take us with you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A cage for a heart

Osseous

Conical

Cornucopia of viscera

Neck-tied

A blooming body tipped like a sword

Xiphoid

Vascular

Ivory keys for tickling

Truthful

False

Floating embers blown by bellows

Voluminous

Spacious

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lordotic, kyphotic, lordotic, kyphotic.

Every hurt and pleasure smuggled inside 24 bony vaults.

Atlas doomed to endure.

Axis gets no glory.

Rock on. Tilt. Nod.

 

 

 

 

8 cranial bones cradle the essential you.

14 facial bones, arch to form a curved throne for your features.

God bless your head and all the warm alters it offers for kisses.

 

 

 

I used to belong to a club that used prompts (created by members or pillaged from literature or popular culture), in timed writing exercises that we would share whether they sucked a lot or were spectacular.

Sometimes, the offshoots of these exercises move me, inspire me, or give me the feels. This one did all of the above. 

“Why are you lonely?” 

That was the prompt. 

Here is my response:

“I have two hearts.

One light.

One pitch dark.”

 

I invite you to play if you’re willing.

Why are you lonely?

 

 

 

 

I wanted you to write me one of your dumb, short, letters. I love your stick-figure drawings. You always draw my neck too long and your hair is a clown wig of Z’s. I thought I saw you today going around a corner. My guts lurched. My heart hurt. I miss you in my bones. When I feel the most misunderstood is when I want to hear you in my kitchen, burning cookies or stirring something fragrant with a wooden spoon.