Underneath My Skin

.

Bone by bone, I replace each fractured, grey fragment with a metal duplicate. I start with my rib cage and galvanized steel. It is too heavy. Starting over, starting low, I have to craft phalanges for each toe. Metatarsals, tarsals, talus. Slowly moving upward, strengthening the frame. Tibia, fibula, femur. One vertebrae at a time. Craft my skull to hold my weary eyes and my sternum – by the time I build my sternum, perhaps my craftsmanship skills will be owned, honed, polished – and I will finally have a safe and sturdy home for the temperamental mass of muscle that insists on pumping hot, fraught, fast and angry liquid through my veins.

.

.

This poem is part of the WordPress “Writing 201” Blogging U.
(Day 3) Today’s topic, form and device are: Skin, Prose, Internal Rhyme

.

Sculptor

I am the clay. Your fingers relay desire into my imperfections,
surveying   the   lines   and   curves  and  rhythms   and   decay.
Sculpting    away    my    insecurities,   you   colorize   the  grey.

.

.

.

*Daily Post*

*Fingers, Prose, Assonance*