Your scars are reminders carved into every inch:
notes on the backs of your hands,
tied strings crawling between fingers,
following alongside veins.
They recede into dark space
under sleeves not long enough
to hide what you’d rather forget.
Why do you trace your bones on the outside in red scabs?
Are you afraid of losing them,
your bones deserting you while you sleep?
You’d wake up melted into your bed sheets
while your bones enjoy the sunlight.
You always look downwards anyways.
Do you forget where they are, your delicate bones?
Is that why you paint them on?
They lie right under the surface
waiting for you to notice them
protecting your vital organs.
Your heart still beats and
you have a pair of lungs.
They work hard for you even
when you forget about them.
But that’s all you are, skin and bones.
If you tear yourself apart all that’s left
is your skeleton, roaming the Earth
with that same distant gaze that
I’ve seen so many times before.
Save yourself.