skeletal struts in poetry

oh how i wish it could be spring
for just today,
then i would go to the gardens
and smell all the flowers
and sit in the geodesic dome
staring at the artificial waterfall
and perhaps id buy a scone,
in the cafe,
to bring my body out of ketosis,
but its rejecting everything for now
except salt crystals and water.
i would like though, since its winter and its the present,
to eat something carby but digestible, to be able to go to and see the nice boy in group today.
the nice taxidermist boy,
who wears bones around his neck and on his chest and in his ear.
who brings his pet rat, who has mummified over 150 lizards
who smiles at me, my cheeks puffy and tear-stained, the skeletal fruit,
who tells me, skittish and standoffish, trying to leave,
to stay safe.
i think ive betrayed him.
my bones are betraying me, the sketetal struts.
my heart hurts and if he wanted he could play xylophone on my ribs.
ive been dumb, ive been a kid
playing chicken on the railroad tracks
a kid, eating an ice cream cone and being told, “you must be lactose intolerant; you look like…” (my fat friend).
im greyhound-thin, but my heart is but a lump,
a lump under mountainous and toxic tissue,
a lump providing me with life and the inevitable pain of that.