Growing Pains

I know I promised to be nicer to myself, should go fill my hands up with goldenrod and pretend there is nothing wrong pretend that the tree of my spine is not rotting, is not infested with ivy and held erect by those twisting tendrils alone and—help me— but sometimes I want to snap the bones of my ribcage apart and count the whirlwind of paper butterflies roosting in my lungs.