Backne

​I think my backne is coming to life
I’ve only ever known living things to complain, anyway
and those pissy pus-filled monsters are as bratty as they come
They borrow my sweaters without asking
oh, and they cry a lot
they cry on my sweaters
I didn’t realize pimples could have so many feelings
but they do I would know they’re
all over my sweaters
 
I like to imagine that they’re a metaphor sometimes
like their rosy complexion is the touch of prophecy from a hand up above
but this lasts only as long as I believe in God
so it’s more likely that they are noisy tenants
on my skin that never pay their rent
Reminders that even if I cloaked myself
with the skins of the night sky
all the moons would find something to scream over
disappear themselves into black holes mottling the swarthy fabric
yarn unraveling and twisting on its own strands
 
I feel like a cross-dressing warrior
wondering when my insides will reflect my outsides
Backne is both devil and angel on my shoulders
One compelling me to cover my spine at the BBQ
for fear of all that exposure
and the other reminding me
that those who love film wait for it to develop
trace bodily constellations across my back with a thumb
mark my memory with their tongues and
they won’t be talking about my backne
because it is mere accessory to a bigger life
 
It was never like this in the dreams
Somehow, I was always either the fairest of them all
or the beast guarding her tower
no one said that I’d be more like Halfling
Some upright thing stuck uncomfortably between
the form of girl and monster
her mind a ghost
her body a root suffocating underground
as backne grows like overripe purple fruit
threatening to feed gravity and fall
 
or, like baby birds cradled by tree arms
throats hungry
their orphaned wings
prophesying flight