what is it that bones are saying, so trapped and silenced by their fate beneath skin? whose idea was skin? let it wash off: your flesh is a figment of your imagination. I suppose I wouldn't be soft anymore but I wouldn't have to open my mouth for people to hear my secrets.
bones are trees with initials carved in and hearts left whole when they have really been broken. bones have deeper thoughts than you or the circles that spiral the trunk of a thousand year old stump.
bones know nothing and everything. you don't have to tell them. they are made of whispers, too afraid to say anything aloud (though they wouldn't be heard if they did).
for years we have speculated, wondered why the earth's bones are so very brittle and why ours are so very small; smaller than the thoughts we pretend to think when we avoid eye contact or run out of things to say. what lies between one and the next is simply a breath we neglected to take when we were waiting to hear if everything was going to be okay.
bones are wise. without listening we cant see. what is the point of walking around with our hands over our eyes and looking for our beds when we can lie down, remember to breathe, and rest in the gentle hand that we've always pushed away?