Lovely (and nothing more)

There, my tailbone juts out.
      An open Wound.
There, my spine runs crooked up my back.
            A battle scar.
There, my shoulder blades spread like bat wings, struggling
To break free from their skin casing.
The fine, white hairs grow everywhere; fingers, toes, up my
Chest. They glow with some mystic energy.
There, my purple nail beds gasp for oxygen, starved of blood,
                      Cold.
Slow to fill with whitish liquid when I press on them.
          My limbs on edge, freezing. Ice in my veins. Poor circulation.
There, my skull more defined with each morning. My sunken cheeks
Greet me in the mirror.
  My eyes’ orbits perfectly clear. Their focus, cloudy.

There, in the sink on the pillow in my hand on the floor is
    Hair.
Dulled, deadened, fallen out.
Afraid, now, to wash it or brush it, my hair grows
      Limp, like an abused animal
Weary with experience and guilt.
The bald spots, gorgeous, really highlight my white, sorry scalp
I look like an old man.

"Your body ran out of fat," my doctor tells me
I sit on the exam room bed, crinkled white paper beneath my dying thighs.
"You are dying"
      I lose
      Liver tissue, kidneys, brain matter
      I lose memory, problem solving, and rational judgment.
      I lose skin, it doesn’t repair itself, my blood doesn’t clot
      I bleed. So much. I wear my weight in band-aids.
      I lose friends; I lose hope; I lose sleep.
I lose heartbeats.
I lose lung capacity.
I lose bone mass.

The lovely bones scream harder to be free, they claw harder at my fragile skin
My feet are bruised where the padding has worn away
where the bones pound the earth
The lovely bones are on fire and everything hurts and I cry every day.
Nothing works.
The lovely bones are getting louder and stronger and rise up against me.







My rib cage imprisons me.
My collarbone chokes me.
My hip bones injure me.

There, my tailbone juts out.
An open Wound.
My hair isn’t all connected to my head but, rather, most sits in an abandoned knot.
    My period hasn’t visited me for two and a half years.
      I nearly pass out every time I take a bath.
I lose friends; I lose hope; I lose sleep.
My lies are          weaker every day.
I hate every time the phone rings. I pile new lies on top of old ones
To prop them up, uselessly.
I lose heartbeats.
My lovely bones are            plotting against me.
    I lose lung capacity.
My lovely bones scrape against this wheelchair.
I lose bone mass.
I lose consciousness.
        My doctor says I have two days          to live.
The lovely bones are getting louder, gripping me with their corpse-like hands.
The lovely bones are stronger, stronger than me.
I've run out of excuses.