I Learned to Love the Bones
I learned to love the bones
because everything else
left.
Smiles left.
Promises left.
The version of me
that thought love
meant safety
left.
But the bones stayed.
They stayed
when I was called too much,
too easy,
too open,
too breakable
like those were sins
instead of truths.
They stayed
when I folded inward
so many times
I forgot
what my voice
sounded like.
Bones don’t flinch.
Bones don’t beg.
Bones don’t explain themselves.
They just hold
the shape
of what survived.
Sometimes
I feel more like a skeleton
than a girl—
all the extra scraped away,
only the architecture
of endurance remaining.
People are afraid
of skulls
because they look like death.
But I see
honesty.
I see
what’s left
after the pretending dies.
I see
the part of me
that didn’t disappear
even when
I wanted to.
Maybe that’s why
I keep skulls
close to my heart—
inked on skin,
carved into notebooks,
woven into art—
because they whisper back to me
in the dark:
You are still here.
You are still here.
You are still here.
And sometimes
that is the only prayer
I know how
to believe.
Reading this poem reminded me of a time when I, too, had to learn to appreciate the deeper, unshakable parts of myself. Life often strips us down—leaving us feeling exposed and vulnerable—but just like the bones mentioned, our core remains intact and strong. I vividly recall going through a difficult breakup where promises were broken and smiles vanished. It felt like everything that made me feel safe disappeared, leaving only a fragile shell. Yet, over time, I realized that beneath the surface, my resilience was still there. Bones don’t falter or explain themselves; they simply support and hold us up. Embracing this gave me a new perspective on self-worth—it isn’t about external validation but about honoring the parts of us that survive hardships. Keeping symbols like skulls close, whether through tattoos or art, can serve as daily reminders of our survival and endurance. This poem captures that raw honesty perfectly. It’s not about fear or death, but about genuine strength—the architecture of who we are after all the extras are stripped away. When we feel like we’ve lost our voice or our identity, it’s comforting to remember that our foundation, like our bones, is unbreakable. I encourage anyone going through hard times to try to see their own 'bones'—the core of their being that perseveres. Sometimes the only prayer we can say is a simple affirmation: “You are still here.” Holding onto this truth helped me find peace and allowed me to rebuild myself from the inside out. It’s a beautiful, humbling process to learn to love what remains, and in doing so, we cultivate resilience and hope for the future.