The Cadaver Collection

Ghosts As Dots

My skin is very beautiful,

and I've had a pimple here and there.

But last year I got some bangs I liked,

so I used concealer and my hair.

My stomach looks alright now

that they burnt the blisters off.

It stung a bit,

I was only ten,

but I was glad to see them gone.

I traced the patters

left by scars,

scars from the dry ice.

Little dots, like chicken pox,

on my chest so they could hide.

Some were on my stomach

and some were on my arms.

And I tried my best to hide them

and they've been obedient so far.

But what about the ones above?

The ones all down my chest?

Easy to hide under shirts as a kid,

wearing clothes like all the rest.

But no one tells that girl in her shirt

that one day it won't be the same.

That one day they won't call it her chest anymore

and they'll trade it for some new names.

Her body will change but the scars won't go

and now she starts to see.

She sees that it's not what she thought all this time.

She sees she's been naive. 

It's not enough that I had pretty eyes

or had the perfect legs.

Cleavage was mandatory

to make it in eighth grade. 

I didn't have breasts,

I didn't have hips,

I didn't have anything worth showing.

Which made it that much harder 

when I finally started growing.

I now had the breasts to fill shirts out,

I had the waist of an hourglass.

I had hips that teased

and a nice ass,

I had gotten so, so lucky.

But what good is having all of that

when you already know

that the only time you'll wear the two-piece

is in the confines of your home?

They're mostly gone now.

No one would know to look. 

Now I flaunt my body

and I get all the praises that I should.

But I know where to look

when the familiar tingling starts again.

Little ghosts as dots are whispering

to say goodbye to this good skin. 

Bloody arms in denim sleeves,

burning ice drops on my chest.

I can't go back to the kid in the shirt,

because now my body is the best.