Pride

My pride I prize -
this, that scales my spine
then ebbs into the eyes,
is the soul's firework,
a celebration that would do.

I eat up all boxes.
Toxic, they call me.
My tears, Antarctic termites -
I'm the beat of winter.

There's a dearth of death, in here.
Ribs snake a scape; create
shapes; and the careless dance
is an existence, a celebration,
a treat, a toast raised
but in surprise.

I am. I am not.
And yet my wrists are kissed
by lips that could be mine.

And pride. The spine.