To snag the flesh upon the bone;
The knuckle brings the hand
To lay upon this rotten shelf.
Fingertips massaging stone;
The crevices remind me
Of the cracks in your skull.
Ancient tomes of lost unknown;
A thin layer of dust
Serves as a veil for these inscriptions.
They shelter the sacred
From prying eyes
And keep away the unwanted,
Or the wanton.
To open the pages
Is to peel back the flesh,
Reveal the naked, pale
White fragility inside.
And all these words
Are the innards of a mind,
Lost, yes,
But not gone entirely.
These bones are so alone;
You remind me of this collection,
This compendium of knowledge
Kept safe for their worth.
You try to keep
Your appearance strong,
Harden your binding
And lock your arms.
But if one was to open,
Peel back your flesh
And look inside,
The pages would not prevail.
They would rot and turn to dust
Simply to keep the viewers out,
Simply to protect
What cannot be protected.
Simply to save your own skin.
Can't you see
I don't care about the flesh?
It is the bones I worry about.
The simple
And beautiful structure
That you keep inside yourself
For none to see.
That is what I wish to see.
The knowledge that you keep
What is truly you away from me
Is an insult to my love.
Can't you tell
I only wish to look past this charade?
Playing keep up and make up
Only lasts for a short time.
So please let me read
Let me read you.
Let me open your cabinets,
Peel back this plastic flesh.
Let me read the books
And weep when I do.
No matter how you harden your skin,
Now matter how you look in the mirror,
No matter how you say it,
No matter how you lie,
The bones will always look the same.
And skeletons are beautiful. |
Submission Name: Squelettes Sont Beaux
