go away, closer


shucking / how Adam was made

i lay awake until my stomach is thick with knots.

i am being shucked like corn.

someone is using their bare hands to remove my ribs, sliding them over my beating heart and pulsing chest, like the shell of a hardboiled egg. over and over. fingers grip ribs and yank. once, twice and then—pop. ribs glide over organs like a passing cloud.

i drape flowers and paper chains over my naked ribs, light candles around them and read sweet notes i imagine my friends would write, enshrining my body’s scaffolding, worshiping my insides from outside. i hope the neighborhood will come visit.

i thought i would be smaller without my whalebones but i am bloated with longing—empty space sits heavy like a mountain inside me, jutting against my entrails. it taps on my heart valves like the dull drip from a pipe after rain.

i am so dense without my ribbed birdcage.

i miss the sturdy bones that hugged my breath.

this is how Adam was made.

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