Chapter One – My Bare Bones
My wrists: broken five times now. I won’t ever be able to pour the spaghetti into the colander, but I won’t ever ask you for help to do it.
My ribs: cracked on the week that everything happened in threes: my heart got broken, my car got broken, my rib got broken.
My scars: when I think of them I don’t recall hiding in the bathroom tearing into my own skin. I think of being told I’ll have to get cosmetic surgery so I won’t be embarrassed when I grow up. I think of pouring over every magazine wondering how these people ever got to 27.
My pile of ashes: I’ve used all of these bones as kindling so many times I think I might just be made of dust.
Maybe that’s why I feel like the dirt is home.
And maybe that’s why I need to feel like I could die sometimes. I’ll start fights with strange men at 2am next to rivers. I’ll ride in cars with boys who are out of their minds. I’ll close my eyes while I’m driving just to see how long I can.
The barest bone: a piece of paper. I’ll write you into hundreds of blank spaces and all the empty corners of my heart. But I can’t write a poem without using the word Soul.
Tell me you need me and I’ll never leave.
Like sometimes how when I notice my tongue on the roof of my mouth I swear I can still taste bar soap stuck to my teeth.
And so I think my soul will always be as raw as all the ways you couldn’t apologise.