My ribcage is ivory against the sheets,
you trace it with one finger.
I am a hard-faced skeleton, cruel and brittle.
I do not need this ribcage -
it only houses the bare minimum: lungs are
reluctantly required, but there’s no need for a heart.
I would neglect it anyway.
And now, I’ve got wavering yolks for pupils,
swimming guiltily in white irises.
It’s like experiencing the world through tears,
or hard rain,
or both.
My bones will snap under the weight of the water.
You have pared and cut me to the bone like no one else.
I swear
I will
break apart.