Spines

If there’s one thing I know,
As a scholar,
A poet,
And other things with labels,


It’s that this world is a volume,
With endless flipping,
Living,
Pages.


It’s a book of spines,
Just as much as it is rib cages.
The ink is blood and bone.
The cover is colored in bruises.


But I’m okay with that,


Seriously,


Don’t pity me with bandages.


I’m okay with bleeding,
As long as it’s in sentences.