Paper Skeletons

Sharper curves. Isn't that an oxymoron? How can curves be sharp?

Still, somehow, they often are.

Everyone is the same. When the sheets come down on those yawning beds. When the lights go off you think you can see them. But when they come up again you're left with strangers.

It's bizarre to feel so much and have only this one way to express. Blunt syringe hunting scarred veins. For an entry point. Or an exit.

It goes in. If I try hard enough.

But out. The out is what I've always sought.

Lose the sheets from empty beds. Push out the drug the same way it went in. Smother the fire in the same way it kills us. One shoelace in a mental ward. One belt buckle closer to the end.

Confirming birth afforded me just this one privilege.

To decide.

I can't remember how it ended. Beyond the ribbons words would knot.

Can't say how it began. Except that it was sudden. Like the tip of a mechanical pencil gouging a fresh page.

And it drew. It drew so many pictures for as long as it was allowed to last.

The only right I've ever had is to decide.

If it mattered.

All people underneath are only paper skeletons.

Eager to be written upon. To read.

What they cannot hear.

Prove the needle goes in both directions.