the In between of a poem

my heart is twisting around

my spinal cord; a strangle hold

though my ribs that spin

like a carousel, a whirlwind

of colors—intoxicating! I try

to take hold but my fingers

are falling numb, pockets

full of cold knuckles that don't

Connect. I have no

Hands that paint, but hands

that flop and flounder in

smudges of the bright

color I so envy. I am

only bones and skin, skin

spattered in paint I have no

discretion with and raw

white bones I've scrubbed

bare. My eyes cannot fathom

this skeleton is mine

that dances with others

strange and shadowed

through my head. They

move disjointed, a mirror

fallen to the floor and

I can't put the pieces

back together—I can't

make the reflection

what it once was. Where,

please tell me where,

are the sleek, pulsating

muscles for my bones?