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.