Saturday, March 13, 2010

-Dem Bones, Dem Bones-

Like most former goth children, I retain a fascination with even the slightly macabre. I spent a good portion of my childhood running around reading books about hauntings and begging my poor momma for a Ouija board (a wish she never relented to).

One of the best and, admittedly, weirdest gifts an ex ever gave me was a genuine human skeleton. He bought it in secret from a medical training facility and presented it to me in a jumble and told me to have fun articulating it. Even now I have to admit, of all the men in my life, he's come the closest to figuring me out.



Even today I still collect skulls. Jewelry, ceramic pieces, toys. I even have a few scraps of dinosaur remains that my ex began teaching me fossil prep on. Little bits and pieces here and there scattered among the action figures and nail polish. Oh, hello, this was once a fox. This here was a thumb. So it goes, and all.

I don't know that I can completely qualify the hold that bones have on me. I started my education in forensic anthropology, but even before that there was a need to hold these things that are never meant to be exposed. It's nudity in the extreme, more intimate than any touch of skin could ever be.

Or maybe there's just a real reason I'm the black sheep of the family.

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