The human skeleton is created with 270 bones but overtime some bones fuse together until there are only 206 left. That's 64 bones that morphed into 64 other bones. 64 parts of the human puzzle that go unnamed against the flesh.
I think about how our bodies evolve. How they get more elaborate, more capable, with time. I'm so adverse to conforming to the herd-mentality that I never take a step back to appreciate the other bones or-better yet- work alongside them.
In a poem by Cecilia Llompart, she writes;
“There are bones
waiting for names in the graveyards.
If bones were like trees, we could cut them open to reveal rings. Instead we wear our rings on the outside, symbols of promise- of possessiveness. All the while, spouting prose on how we can be alone.
I like solitude. But as age makes my bones brittle, I'm realizing how important it is not to be alone. To make eye contact with a person and smile, to laugh at a joke, to hug, to love. The words flow so simply but it all comes at a cost.
When you look at a person, it's the moment before you look away.
Or a smile quickly melted to a frown.
The way your body shakes, with hours of uninhibited laughter, that's how it topples over and cries.
Hugs leave bodies cold, in the aftermath of affection. When our favorite hugs are shared with other, it fills our chests with icicles. Those are the harshest winters, the ones we watch play out around us.
Like love- to freely give up your heart is bare-bones vulnerable. It's the skeletons in our closets, it's knock-knees and pelvic thrusts and entangled lives. It's everything we fear the most. All 206 of our most fragile parts.
If there are bones waiting for names in graveyards, I hope it's long before the names of the people I love etch the bones of time. Before they disappear.
This is Me:
My name's Melissa. I'm the girl with her hands in her journal.