There are 206 bones in my body.
There are 206 names for those bones. Names I don’t know, or barely know.
The bare bones of me are my words and not the names they gave to the pieces of me.
The bare bones of me are moments that survived, loved ones who didn’t and memories and dreams mingled and fused.
The bare bones of me are not bones at all.
My eyelashes are the sunrises of south anywhere.
My cheeks are the cool caress of the pillow in a bed with the Hollywood sign taped to the pine headboard.
My lips are Southern Comfort with lemonade and the beginnings of Bat Out of Hell over and over again.
There are pieces of my bare-bone-being scattered across the globe.
My courage is in the Maltese sea.
My longing is in the breeze of Tipperary.
My uncertainty is in the blades of grass in Perth.
My tears are on a balcony floor in India.
My deep unshakeable knowing is in the granite of Brooklyn Bridge.
These are my bones today. Tomorrow they may be different.
The bare bones of me are forgotten stories asking to be remembered. They are aches and paragraphs and tender, troubled truths. They are joyous secrets and terrified hours.
They are never all of me but they are all mine.