All of the skeletons in my closet have shame for bones.
Their teeth fill their mouths like the bile
of a memory that will not bury itself inside the skin
like any respectable memory would,
where eventually it would be sloughed away with the rest of it.
My skeletons are heavy, their marrow is weighted down
by histories that should not be repeated
but will be eventually, as all bones are inevitably
cracked open so that the marrow
may be sucked, and the blood can be tasted.