I’m have a hard time

accepting that I have a

skeleton inside of me.

I mean, a skeleton.

And of all things.

What am I,

some kind of monster?

ii

Why not some-thing practical,

like a kick-ass bicycle?

iii.

If all our inner parts, when re-assembled,

could make a dirt bike,

imagine how we would look at death.

It would be a time not only of deep mourning,

but sick jumps & wheelies.

iv.

I’ve only ever known my great-Grandfather

as a skeleton,

because that is the only

photograph we have of him.

v.

We have a painting of my great-grandfather,

but it’s of a skeleton too,

as it was painted from the photograph

vi.

I have no memories

of my great-Opa. 

I was too young. Although my family

insists that I look a lot like him.

Or, maybe, that I will one day,

after all my skin is gone.

vii.

But, again, as I said at the start,

that is all a big IF

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