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.