I scrutinize myself in the mirror

I am pale and frail and weak.

I am skin.

I am bones.

There is no meat on marrow,

There is no thing to borrow.

I am skin pulled taut over a decaying frame.

Each rafter, each beam, poking

Painfully through its cover.

Each protrusion stretching this once tough hide

Into a gauzy swathe of tissue

That could easily be broken.

I am blood.

I am air.

There is no meat in breast,

There is no thing pumping heartily in chest.

This sickness running rampant,

Tearing limb and organ in opposing directions.

There is no nutrition that can heal this

Malnourished ailment.

I am no surviving victim of genocide.

I am no masochist or leper.

I am no filth or wretch…

I am sick.

I am tired.

There is meat to replenish,

There is soul to re-polish.

This skin would loll if not for

Its vigorous attempt to hold

This waning frame together.

I am a rack of ribs.

I am a bundle of bones.

I am recovering from a phantom

That has sudden taken hold.

I will be me once more

When I am once again in control.