my body is an ossuary for my bones
a receptacle for which they have no other home
i am a cathedral of trauma housed behind closed doors
catacombs my roots tangled and mangled in the earth
how bizarre to celebrate what hurts
i am a museum of scars and if you examined each piece
you’d find marred femurs and Knicks on fingers
bruised kneecaps strung up next to teeth
because there’s nothing keeping me together
but memories and collected eccentricities
recorded in fractures and fine lines
housed forever beneath busy streets