Back-pocket Jawbones

We scrape our nails across our wrists
to bring the scent of blood,
to call the beasts we see in the corners of our eyes.
We chew holes through our pretty lips
hoping to force the truth
through a bigger outlet.
[It never seems to fit through the spaces
in our plastic-metal smiles.]
We've never even seen our own reflections;
it's the images in others' eyes
that show us what we are.

We are
wraiths
of flesh and bone,
laughing in the night,
cigarette smoke weaving through
the empty spaces
in our ribcage.
Our veins are full of alcohol to keep us going.
[What fun is the world without blurry edges, anyway?]
We hide beneath the warpaint and the shirts
of boys who pretend to wish they loved us
and we dance to the music
that we liken to the insides of our skulls.
[But really,
it's only an echo of the expression on our faces.]

We break our spines to tell the story of the scars and
clap our hands together
just to hear the clatter of our bones.
[We are so proud
that you can count them through our skin.]
Our eyes are rimmed in black and
our mouths speak in only red and
we dance,
breaking our hearts as soon as they heal
so our distress signal might
just
reach
your ears as you pass
and your eyes
might light up with lust
for the ghosts of who we think we were.

We slip through the days
hoping that you'll find us,
pity us,
pick us up and
sew us back together.
We conspire in silver whispers,
conversations held behind the gauze.
How do we entrap you?
How can we call you closer
so our legs can wrap around your hips,
blurring the line between animal lust and
fear
of the dark.

We chatter together like teeth in the cold,
avoiding the jutting points of the truth
in our smoke-and-candy voices.

The truth is,
we are never broken enough to be fixed.
We are only dead things shouting out in the cold,
refusing to admit the simplest facts
traced on the roofs of our mouths.

We are broken because we can hide
our ugliness behind the scars—


—and call ourselves perfect.