“My iron levels are low” she said
caressing the canyon tied in her collarbone
“i'm hungry for stone cold faces” that
project pity meant for pious beings

But “Not for me,” she said, echoing earlier thoughts because
“my iron levels are low”
wire fingers pluck the strings of a rib cage
desire camping out in the spaces left between
each protruding bone.

Corner the cage and lock its door shut
dump hunger inside the shredding bars
to let ear drums devour and nostrils demolish
the sweet sound of a stomach rumbling
remnants left in solitude to rot.
Remembering always that
“iron levels are low.”

“My iron levels are low” and I'd like to find solace
from lilac crests that cry out to me loud and
scapulas that scrape the corners of my conscience
clavicles like copper wire
winding in and out of a stream of scruples

yet through the depths of tattered marrow I walk
legs like cigarettes burning out bluntly because
digestion is delusive and just because I say the word “I”
does not mean I am alive.
Falling to the ground is not always fatal
and goosebumps are not destined to grimace
upon my shivering skin.
So one day, the phrase
“my iron levels are low”
will be but a fallacy.