My broken bones
In a decorative vase
In New York City’s living room.
What an honour it is to be
Misunderstood.
A tragedy, oh.
Look at the way her femur is cracked.
The pain she must have felt! To have
Tasted an ounce of it, I’d never
Understand.
And the pictures are taken
And the young boys don’t “get it”
And the girls laugh at their ignorance, as they themselves
Struggle for definitions.
But I am enigmatic.
My bones have no story.
My bones can be yours.