Rib by Raghad Rijraji

Posted on April 19, 2014 by

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I’ve been thinking about the way we cling onto things that turn out to be the demise of all meaning and how it’s almost ritualistic. All the concrete we tried to satisfy our hunger with and all the ways we drew red lines along the shorelines with signs that read “here ends your parameter”.

 

You were looking at all that glory, watching the ships get sent out sailing all alone. Hunger was still eating at us while someone said something about turning ourselves into exact replicas of our roaring cities.

 

I’m telling you, my body doesn’t feel the same anymore. My bones are changing shape; I could see my ribcage arching into a boat and my limbs into anchors. Everything is aiming towards quenching the conscious desire of drinking salt water.

 

It’s a kamikaze mission; you’ll sink so deep. I thought we won’t play roles we’re too incompetent for anymore?

 

The rib I’ve named after you has cracked and there’s no tethering to your names or places anymore. I close my eyes and I see a vast inner space where everything is in celebration. There’s a holy meaning to the earth and skies and the leaves of small things. I’d love to flirt with you sometime but you’re a strict follower of empty desires and inward voyages and you devoted your mornings to wrecking so many ships out of spite.

 

Something blossomed last night. It was a flow of something familiar. A bulb of radiance shining a light on the concrete filling up the spaces between our ribs. They weren’t cavities and they needed no fixing. No wonder. I think this is what made us feel like giant saints of apathy and I think if it were to rain right now, I would cry. And if this were a prayer, you would’ve been the heart of it.

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