My Body of Work

When I lie down

Upon my back

And the space

Between my ribs

and hip bones

Stands gaping,

My body finally feels

As bare and vulnerable

as my heart.

My pain on display

Like an art gallery

Filled with the works

Of an eager

young, new painter,

Awaiting validation.

And the space is

Just asking to be filled;

With fingertips to

Trace the curves,

Or compliments to feed it.

It is my home.

Familiar like a favorite book

With dog-eared pages,

A gritty turn with each;

And an inviting musty smell.

The story is


Full of accomplishments,

And adventures,

And despite the darkness,

A promise of

a happy ending.

It is a lie.

About dying.

And no one survives the end.

And despite knowing that spoiler

I will always read it again.


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