Skeleton
Skeleton.
Most people have skeletons hidden in their closets, too afraid of what they might represent,
instead of keeping them away, I live with them, waiting for the day they finally awake.
Carefully treating those bones in an attempt to nourish the jaw,
so hopefully, it’ll spill the secrets of how I ended up being this way.
Cause they’re so many things I wish I could say.
But the words won’t come out.
Cause deep down I know my world would be destroyed if they’re ever pronounced.
So I impatiently wait, to these bones pour everything that I’ve held down my throat
And it gets me back to the time where I wrote poems about how I felt, but none of them actually made sense,
there was no point in staying awake when everything I thought was about death.
I couldn’t face the words spread all over the paper, the reminder of everything I was scared of.
Even afraid of myself, cause, how could I have written something so dark?
My mind started to feel like a dungeon, trying to find my way out. No matter how hard I ran, there was no point. I was trapped.
The sadness, the most comfortable thing I’ve ever known. It wouldn’t let me go.
Cause it was the bond constructing my relationship with this corpse.
Now, I admire carefully every skeletal substance, like if it was a sculpture dignified of complaisance.
sometimes I feel is coming back to life; this sack of bones that terrified me the entire time.
and I praise our perseverance, cause we won’t let go of the remonstrance against moving on.
trauma has a lot of names and as many secondary effects,
but nothing as the cognizance of how it wants to tear my ribs apart so it can make an entrance,
and take the place of my own ossein, with complete dependence of its feasance,
so there’s any chance of escape.
Even knowing this, I keep moving my feet to this petulance dance.
Cause my trauma is who I am.
