Nobody warned me
about the sound of skeleton laughter,
ribcages shaking like bells,
airless chuckles cracking the hot night,
slipping through the closet slats
into my skull.

It was fine with just Meg:
supermodel cheekbones,
a jaw that could steal my name.
We shared the closet,
my jackets brushing her collarbone.
"your flesh prison
can't wear that many anyway."

Then came her sister,
then another,
until nine of them
rattled teacups at 2 A.M.,
dripping through the floorboards.
My shirts fled to the hall.
I dream of thunder
that silences their bones.

They call it a ****** of crows -
but what waits in the dark,
rattling its teeth
for the last of you,
is a plague of skeletons.