I’m have a hard time
accepting that I have a skeleton inside of me.
Of all things.
What am I, some kind of monster?
I’ve only ever known my great-Grandfather
as a skeleton,
because that is the only
photograph we have of him.
We have a painting of my great-grandfather,
but it’s of a skeleton too,
as it was painted from the photograph
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.
But we’re dealing in assumptions here.