Prose Poetry: My Bones

My bones are hollow, cracked, and dusty. Only good for breaking, only reset badly. I cannot layer them with books and hope the weight won’t crumble them. I cannot rest weary elbows on them and hope the years forget to splinter through. They are made for nothing. The world slips through the porous openings in them and passes by, unimpressed. Sometimes all I can hear is the Old_House_of_Steve_Kapcsoscreaking in my ears, like an old house shifting, shrinking in the foundation like the elderly still wearing the clothes of their youth. Even when I’m very still, even when I have not moved in a century, they creak, betraying me. My bones are old and dry as a desert. They have been thirsty for as long as I can remember and I have never attempted to slake their thirst. They’re a part of me, after all. Without my brittle, empty pins, who would I be? It is like saying that my freckles are my defining feature, that my ears are crooked, that one eye is blue and one is brown. I have bones that withered away before I even knew how to walk. There is no marrow animating my skeleton. I am death walking. That’s my conversation starter.

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