Bones:
I want to pick at my bones,
pull them out of flesh and rearrange them,
so they more so suit the image I have in my head,
of the man I’d rather be -
who’s rib cage had been blown open,
his organs moved around and his skin stretched out.
The “perfect” man.
I want to rebuild myself,
and smash the face in the mirror that mocks me.
let me lay down in the dirt and have the raptors tear at my skin and pull apart what little I have left of me,
and maybe I’ll prefer the way I look when they’re done.
I want to cut my face open,
surgically repair what’s broken.
Maybe one day, i’ll grow angel wings out of my spine,
they’ll be made of all the bones I tried to pick out.
Just to show me that what’s lost is not ugly,
but what’s broken could be beautiful.