I unwrap myself from the red linen shroud

And head towards the wavering closet.

Today the skeleton seems less proud,

Stupefied, only relatively.

Sometimes I take it out and waltz with it,

It seems the right thing to do.

Sometimes I carry it on my friendly shoulders,

Hoping its rage would undo.

Then there are times when I shun it away

To acknowledge its inexistence.

And veiling myself with the shroud, I stay

Till I am disrupted by the rattling of bones

Walking back towards my bed,

I lie down, crying still

With the skeleton at my elbow,

It’s a story of me I want to ****.