Sticks and stones

I still remember that I was 11. When I was 11, a woman named Wendy came into the classroom with 50 count watercolor paper and a giant, light blue book of Georgia O'Keefe. At the time, the least any of us cared about was the peppered surrealist artist, and more so of the mandarin oranges we had packed for snack time shortly after. Yet something from that day stuck with me. Something that's grown into this grotesquely adoration of mine. From the cool white surface, to the silent solitude, I find nothing more beautiful than bones. I love them to the point where everyday I wish they were protruding severely from my body. As the ivory arches are tearing the sewn threads of my chest, if the flimsy frame of my decaying body was held together by the the pearls of my skeletal structure, it will still never be enough. The pinpointed masses within of shape us, and offer the most beauteous quality of all. Skin and bones, bones as skin, let outward come within. I wish nothing more than to be reduced to the silver strands of it all.