Theres enough skin

In her bed. With dead arms weighing her down. Those tiny monsters so heavy. So strong. Like first words. And last ones. Or everything in between that makes either matter. Telling the stories in raw alarms. Woken up to nothing. And everyone. Broken metaphors. The pencil too close to the paper. The moment too deep inside her. They're gone, but still there.

Prominent fables turn lessons learned back on the teacher. Saviors with hollow hands try to catch her.

She finally stops counting. She knows there's skin enough even without the bones.