By Nicole Zelniker
Xylophone bones brittle
against stretched skin
where my skeleton attempts
to break free from a flesh prison,
a place where I can run my hands
against my sides
and feel like an instrument,
broken strings on a guitar.
Eyes are all that’s left of me,
ready to pop out suddenly and snap
from the veins holding them back
to what used to be their body,
from the face where bones look like knives
get ready to cut me down to size because
the person I no longer am
still wants to be thinner.
Nicole Zelniker is an Editorial Researcher at The Conversation US and a recent graduate of the Columbia Journalism School. A creative writer as well as a journalist, Nicole has had her poems and stories appear in Quail Bell Magazine, The Greenleaf Review, The Hungry Chimera, Fixional, and others. In her free time, Nicole enjoys reading, photography and ranting about the patriarchy.