To the Skeleton in my Closet: Love, me.

Your bone structure is lovely,

but you’re just a shriveled up, old skeleton,

waiting to be excavated someday

and finally be famous

in that très ironique fashion

you’ve so desired;

your skull smiling

(even though you were only ever brooding in photos)

in some disgustingly sterile museum

where they will pay to gawk at you

and think only of your bones,

never the things they carried.

But, I’ll love you anyway,

even when you’re dust.

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