Weak

Hummed inside carburetors,
like lungs do to lullabies, 
I grasped my whitened vertebrae, 
and crumpled it up 
as if I were child without a spine. 

 Like papyrus on a good day, 
I scribbled abstract feelings 
(the kind I am incapable of feeling) 
and wrote them in verse;
told everyone I was emotional 
and needy. 
Such a good, big, girl. 

I ripped the spinal cord
away from my ribs, 
and when I felt
just a little weak - 
I tossed it into an honest graveyard-  
one built for me, 
to house my restraints 
and abilities. 
  'Cause I don't want to feel
what I can't. 

And when I split my vertebrae
between my teeth and cuticles,
I can see the light 
that once grew inside my lullaby 
fade into an anti-positive.
Boring holes into sunset canary yellow,
sprouting between the dirt that's my smile. 

I would break every bone in my chest, 
if I knew it'd cause any sort of pain.
After all, there's no use for a woman 
that hasn't got a backbone.

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