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.