Rib by Lyla Ashry

Posted on April 19, 2014 by


I don’t wear these earbuds to be ignorant, and I don’t play the music loudly to bother you, but instead to try and drown out the noise.


The noise in my head, that is. All the thoughts running and replaying in my mind like a symphony gone wrong. An Ode to Joy of anger and resentment that burns and chars my heart black.


If only I could reach down and separate my ribs so that I could reach in and pull out this smoking, pained heart and douse it with cold water; watch the steam fly upwards and then fall into the abyss, a comforting place where my problems no longer seem so large when confronted with such great depth and nothingness.



Just tip over and drop into it; let it constrict and crowd around me until I can’t breathe, because holding my neck when I sleep is never enough. Never enough to drown you out until you can’t be heard. It’s not because I hate you, and I’m never sure, but if I were to guess then it would be because you and I aren’t pieces of the same puzzle — never have been. My joints don’t blend with yours, making us incapable of melting into one another in an inconstruable mess of flesh and bone.

Posted in: Rib