Mis-purposed Ribcage (Fiction)

I sit there with an expression on my face that reads like a speechless thought bubble. I rock back and forth with the bumps and bruises encountered by the bus. My eyes will sometimes attempt to look into the lives of other by perusing their skin, their clothing. Sometimes, they would endeavor to see the person in a sexual light, even if underneath such illumination lay one quite unfitting to my tastes, even if such a fact was well observable without the help of a candle’s flicker.

My nostrils grow and fall, rustling the dust above my lip. I do not notice. I notice the trees, launching by me and the rest of the passengers at the speed of stillness. It amazes me how such a land-locked being could appear to move so much more than I, though I have feet with which to transport my tired vessel.

The rampant belongings of thought tumble in my skull, and the fingers of sentence structure can not grasp any ideas longer than a moment too small for measure. I realize this, and can do nothing for it. It leaves me feeling like I need a blanket, despite the lack of cold. It makes me want to undress all at once, lay myself down on the dirty floor, rest the breath in my chest, in my head. I feel too open and too closed, like an empty bar in a secluded lot, right off the side of a highway on holiday. Tabs are open, but they’re all in names I have just made up. Margery doesn’t exist anymore than Mike’s piss stains in the corner. Everything stands as a shadow against a wall, a shadow whose owner has long since left the embrace of the too-white glare blazing from beyond the barstools. .  

Too open. Too closed.

I am simply trying to ride the bus home, but my mind has decided instead to raid me of rational sensation, in favor of irreducible aches induced by clues – clues leading up to a mystery that no one can be satisfied with, once they unravel its delicate threads. Such is the way of our addiction to stimulation.

I will do it for you, leave the moral unbound, right here and now. Reach down to the floor, and pick it up for me. For you.


Nothing is ever so easy as allowing oneself to believe in the dull, dark captivation of their own cold, lonely core.  

The chest begs to break, but…

The ribcage is without cause anyway.


One thought on “Mis-purposed Ribcage (Fiction)

  1. Wow! You’re so good at embodiment. Your writing often has these little moments that make me react physically, and that’s such a welcome relief after reading piles of dull theory texts. Thanks for the breath of fresh air.


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