I walk into your spine—hoping to find reverence but there's only **** where there should be bone. Thoracic—cervical—clivux that does nothing but bend with uncertainty. I press my fingers in and they sink. Deeper and deeper and deeper until they reach something firm. When I pull there's rotting. It runs down my hand and under my nails and collects around my shirt sleeve. I hold on and it grins like it knows. Shivering will do you nothing. You will still keep bending for the wrong things and worst of all; everyone will believe that's how you're meant to be.