The day I blossomed from my mother's womb
I had two blue eyes, ten pudgy fingers, ten tiny toes,
And 300 bones.
But as I’ve grown up, day by day, year by year, person after person,
I’ve been reduced to less --
Where did they all go? 94 gone
Since the time I was young
The infrastructure to my being has faded.
What happened since the time I believed fairies flew through flowers.
Since I sat on magic carpets imagining kingdoms rushing by on my kitchen floor
Since I believed that I held undiscovered superpowers
If I concentrate I can levitate this book
That part of me is missing
I’m a trained machine that engrains into my mind what is inside that book.
And It tells me that I cannot make it fly.
What’s different from when I would stand three feet tall
In bubble gum cowgirl boots and glittering tiara tangled in tresses
Strutting around town never holding back
Flowing through squeals of joy, shrieks of anger and sobs of sadness
I lack the support. I’m missing 94 bones.
Hide my excitement, hide my frustration, huie my grief, hide my unhappiness,
In order to appear a pleasant and likeable human.
What changed since the days when I went
Springing out of my butterfly bed awaiting the new day
Maybe filled with sunshine, greeting pill bugs under pebbles.
Even a day with grey skies meant my favorite ladybug rain boots
I awake to stiffness.
Rain means clammy skin and frizzy hair.
Even the sun is clouded over as its glare becomes an inconvenience
How could 94 bones leave without notice?
But now it’s too late, they’re all gone away.
Gradually worn away
By time, by sleep, by terror, by souls.
94 pieces missing of my puzzle.
Leaving an abstract figure.
Gradually hardening into my new skeleton