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