Bones

I love people who cry in restaurants
who are sick at the sight of blood
who lie through their teeth in the face of danger.
This raw humanness
the lifting of the skin,
the agony, the wailing of the open wound.
Who have palms wet with sweat
when they speak in public
spots oozing with yellow juice,
grease in dark dyed hair
who leave sticky snot imprinted on your jumper.
I love people who laze about in
faded underwear covered in toast crumbs
who lick cracked, dry lips and
absentmindedly poke cellulite.
Who feel shame and
faint at the hospital,
wake up past noon and
lay for a long while,
feeling the sun on their bones.