Rib by Shereen

Posted on April 19, 2014 by


Cold summer afternoons.

Dark early mornings.

Lonely family/friend night gatherings.



Why do you come back after every time you leave?

That’s even worse than leaving..



Why do you say you love me, and that you can’t stay away?

Who told you that that’s enough?

Who convinced you words were enough?

And why do those reasons have a hard time existing before you go?




Apathetic; indifferent.



Our 4 a.m. calls are replaced by piteous writings on walls.

The songs on the radio, we used to know by heart.

The guitar strings, that never broke, are replaced by new ones.

I am replaced by others.And I wish I could replace you, too.



I remember the day our friends decided we should all have a reunion:

You brought an outsider with you.

Your hands were on her waist, and she didn’t look a bit like me.

I left because the open air with a lot of people felt suffocating.

I stood outside, alone, and the street looked like my insides: dead.

I took a deep breath, then there was that reminder again:

an empty rib cage made out of broken ribs.

No lungs to breathe in viral air or salty water.

No heart to pump blood or have its tendons collapse out of sorrow.




Every time you leave, every cell in my body reaches out for you.

But it’s been years since you left, and I remember feeling tired of playing sick, little games.

I’m a writer.

I’m going to write books about your death, so you’ll die every time a reader touches my books and flips through pages the way you’ve been doing with my sorry life.

I’m going to make readers hate you; despise you; abhor you.

And someday you’ll find a girl who’ll make you need her more than nicotine to get through your days, but she’ll know better than to stay; she’ll leave you a hundred more times than every time you left someone out of sour excuses.



She’ll leave and you’ll spend all your drunk mornings at home:

angrily screaming like someone just shot a bullet at you, and you’re bleeding to death;

you’ll cry like you’ve just come out of your mother’s womb;

and you’ll cuss like you just got burned.

And all your sober nights on the streets:






But you’ll get over her.

And you’ll hear my fading voice singing: Honest to God, I will break your heart, tear you to pieces and rip you apart.

So you’ll take the next train to the next town in attempt to run away.

But my typewriter and I are voices inside your head; you can never run away.

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