I keep one hand pressed against the ledges of my collorbones
Their solidity, my savior
The other hand
always clamped over my mouth, for I know that
When I smile
The secrets I ate as lunch will try to crawl out between my teeth
My tongue holds the truth prisoner
But I have underestimated the truth's ability to get out
Through my pencil, it sets itself free
Even my drawings do not eat enough
I erase her before anyone can see
I erase the girl sketched between those blurred graphite streaks
But I cannot erase the fact that my own bones are a comfort to me
And that, someday down this path,
I will be her
Beautiful only in the way that all dying things are
And I, like her, will be eraseable
I can only hope for my pencil to draw me a new path
A way out my prison and, like the truth,
I pray for my pencil to set me free.