Secret Skeleton

Your tears were hailstone pellets breaking my windshield shoulder
that one night a couple months ago. I caught a golf-sized one
in my palm and crushed ice to find your ex’s hair
coiled between fingers. You were crying
over her new boyfriend in Bloomington, while shouting
‘you don’t love her anymore.’ You still wanted to text her
to patch breakup, but my yard needs new grass from your fists
that broke my soil.

You find love in girls with rollerblade minds and spin underneath plastic
wheels. One spin, your in love; three spins when things stop working out.
Five is when you fall back in love with your ex.

But, I am pillow you scream into. You
tear fabric, pick feathers, punch through back lawn soil.
I am a skeleton whose rib cage traps secrets, and smoke tar
to tighten words up. There are too many of your words caught
inside my eye sockets and elbow joints,
but I keep it safe without cracking my knuckles.