The Ceilings

They grow in thick,

White fiber

With white tips,

 

Like the roots of a tree

They sprout from my skin,

 

I will not lie to you,

I have broken them too,

Sometimes,

My spine gets cold

At the thought of flying,

 

I pile up the ceilings,

Rip the white from its crevices,

I stain it rose

Claim unworthiness,

 

My hands shout

Weariness,

My skin tender to touch,

 

They keep coming back,

Cannot yank them all

From their place,

 

I see through

The ceilings,

White

Stretches from my shoulder blades,

 

No more lies,

You will miss me,

I know.