i found a skeleton in my bed,
having died honourably and horribly
like a coward
through the course of that day.
and i wanted to send you a picture, i did,
but leave it to me to find
a self-conscious skeleton. you always tell me
i’m disaster-prone. you always tell me
you’re the only one i should listen to.
but the skeleton- the skeleton, remember,
it’s in my bed. i weighed it
and it’s only eight kilograms. god,
must’ve been some tiny person;
god must’ve been a tiny person.
there’s a ghost, too, somewhere around.
i wanted to name it. something beautiful,
something that flows of your tongue
nice and easy in conversation,
a string of words made for being spoken.
it’s a sad ghost, you know,
the kind that chills the room when
it shows up, the kind that fists my hair
in its palms when i forget to say hello,
the kind that would scratch
at your skin just to get your attention.
i wish it would listen to me.
it leaves dark scabs on my legs
and i can