there is a rotting carcass beneath my ribcage.
my mother says to "stop speaking like that" and "it's all just in your head" but when I try to explain how sometimes my neck aches because my cranium feels like it carries the sun, she doesn't listen.
doesn't understand why I always smell like smoke and I just let her think it's nicotine and tar because that's easier to talk about than the flames on my tongue, or the two burn victims dangling from my elbows.
when my therapist asks why I wear so many bracelets I tell her they match my outfit.
I say nothing about the storms that rip through my bedroom at 4 o'clock in the morning and how I need something to tie me down at the wrists so I don't fly away because I've seen Oz but capsule castles and Prozac princesses are not my idea of a fairytale.
I don't show her my bruised ankles because no matter how many times you click your heels, you aren't going home.
There is a rotting carcass beneath my ribcage but everytime I ask the doctor to pleaseohgodplease get it out of me, he tells me you can't live without a heart.