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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