my left hand grips my bottom jaw
my right hand grips my top jaw
i stare through my forearm at this inhuman creature in the mirror
deep breaths, saliva gathers on my fingertips
i pull to break it open
crack the egg like dad used to
with tomatoes in a pan
boiling after they burst
my eyes are at the same plane as my chin
small hands come out of my gurgling mouth
its a child, stained red
my intenstines a cloak
step on my throat to propel yourself forward
toss my bones into your backpack
run with two different colored socks
late into class
still you walk the same way i did
my husk remains with a scent
of stencils and old fast food bags
sleep with my ribcage under your blanket
at your show and tell
show your class what my bones are
' this is my dad and this is me'
' i don't ever want to be like him'