Hips at 126.8 pounds, 23 in L.A.

Some days
To me
My face looks like
A rubber mask
And some days also
Dried with sandpaper
With war wounds from battles fought and lost
And I see words and events carved in there along the edges

In the bleakest of times
I think
You smile too much

And in the best
I think it is a dream somewhere between good and bad
So smile anyways

I can see my bones there beneath my skin
Iron mountains in a landscape of soft soil
Dense liquid shapes
Just fragile enough to
Fear

In the hardest of times
I can hear them snapping inward
From too much pressure
Misaligned in a body out of shape
In a body pushing too hard on itself

And in the best
I press down and rise up
One big graceful lever
Dancing called walking
My hands folding around the hardest edges of the softest body
Handles to hold on to.

My bones reaching up
(even in their liquid state)
To give me (this me, the rest of me, not just the bones of me) something to hold on to