ribcage girl

i. domesticity

I drink milk every day because my doctor says I need it to grow. Kind of like I need this calcium rush in order to make my bones stronger so I stop cracking them so easily. Preventing them from ever reverting to the weak, knobbly knees of last summer when a boy I had a crush on. Had a crush on, crushed me. Like a pulp. Into grains. Like a spoon grinding up soggy cereal swimming at the bottom of a bowl. I wake up in the middle of the night, remembering I didn’t drink 3 glasses today, and run to the refrigerator in my socks and chug it straight from the gallon, barbaric and yearning like a schoolgirl hitching her skirt up too high, and picture the white flowing through my veins. Softening me. Rounding me out. Giving me curves. I get a brain freeze instead and pray I’ll stop crying over spills and that I can sleep with this cold lurching in my stomach.

ii. vicinity

Maybe one day my hair will stop being so limp in the heat, but I don’t think that kind of thing can be anticipated, so I just have to wait. Girls like me live in the back of an un-air-conditioned convenience store, ratty sweatpants, tight tank tops, and crawl out with week-old receipts bursting from their pockets. Like glued ribcage kind of girls, like elastic hair tie, red marks around the wrist kind of girls. The cashier doesn’t mind when I snag a magazine from the rack and browse through it without paying because no matter how hard I try, I end up looking pre-pubescent anyway. And they let things slide. For a girl like me, at least. I’m saying, lopsided bun, wide eyes, a mouthful of crooked teeth, stars pulling them into their places, I was always too scared to get braces. The cover has some headline about how to enlarge your breasts naturally, which I think might be useful, and another about how to communicate effectively with others without saying hurtful things, which makes me laugh. I flip to the back to check my horoscope and eat that prophetic, adolescent shit catered to the teenage soul up like Eucharist laid under the tongue. Swallow down a spoonful of March’s: “Prepare to face some stress this month, but that’s okay! You’ll be able to get through it and find time to relax.” I want to rip out the page and shove it into my bra, like keeping these soft, meaningless words close to my chest will make them seep into my heart and change me. Stop making me think so much, fill my brain up with Arizona tea and static instead. But I’m cheap, and I shove the magazine back. I think my chest will stay flat forever.

iii. mobilization

I seek healing. Mending. I’m fingernails deep, sitting in the back of a subway at 3 a.m., pressing crescent moons into the leather seat, trying to dig up salvation. You can’t find that here, you can’t find that in the cracks between the tiles, you can’t find comfort in the ground up cigarette butt stamped into the floor. I’m wishing against this fogged up glass I could say anything, anything that would make sense for once, so someone could help me. Like please, my mind is bending in backwards, like please, I don’t think this underdeveloped chest can take any more of this resentment or it’s going to explode through my ribcage, out of my flesh, like please, I don’t want to hurt anymore. And it’s not my fault that I launch myself around like I’m in some sick little competition, pretending I don’t care, like I’m having the time of my life. Of course I’m not, of course I’m not, I don’t think having your hands shake and your brain go fuzzy whenever you think a little too much is fun, something to be documented for the world to see. I guess I’m different from other people that way, I’d rather people think I’m having a good time than actually have one without anyone knowing. I wish I knew how to sew, so I could stitch up my fibrillating heart, no matter how sloppy and crooked, but the needle jabs my finger as the subway lurches left, and I bleed, I bleed, I bleed.

iv. unearthliness

My mom told me not to walk naked in front of the altar. Disrespectful, she called it, and even though I agree, sometimes I test my divinity and emerge from the bathroom, the steam from the shower wafting off smoke like the incense in its pot. Young god, skin tinted green from fake gold. Young god, empty stomach, fruit scooped out of its rind, leaving me seedless. This hatred has roots, and I don’t know whether I want to dig out my insides with my hands or fill myself up until I’m close to bursting. I let people think the scratches on my knees are from a night of alcohol and a boy tugging my hair. Of course, it’s that and not child worship on a scratchy rug, not begging for forgiveness, not praying for glamour and glory, not hoping for. Of course it’s not hoping for something better.

—  this pain lasts in every location
Gryffindor Girls

Gryffindor girls who have no patience for mild and instead embrace everything that is loud and wild and on fire. They wouldn’t understand chill even if it hit them in the face – they are roaring young blood, their kisses loud, cheek pecks that leave lipstick stains, their laughter is 4th of July fireworks, they don’t know how to breathe if their lungs aren’t catching fire.

Yes, they are brave, but they are alive, too, and that is so much more important. Imagine alive, imagine the top of a rollercoaster ride, imagine exploding into a moment and staying there forever.

They are Icarus girls, always flying a little too close to the sun but even falling into the sea is better than never having kissed the sky.

You don’t know what love is until a Gryffindor girl has loved you, pulling collars and leaving marks like a permanent reminder, until it felt like waiting for the sun to go down and going skinny-dipping in the lake, like the memories of childhood with first kisses and first bruises and the first time you have ever had a dream you’d fight for, live for, and die for. 

Some Gryffindor girls never bruise their knuckles on someone else’s cheekbones and some walk around believing that they would be better suited in a different house. Sorting Hat makes mistakes, sure. And then their friends pet their hair, promise to give them the world and life is good and gold and red and it spills over them like honey.

“Do you know why you belong in Gryffindor?” a friend asks them just before the dawn, when the world is fraying at the corners. It’s good, it’s good, it is so good.


Fingers easy when they press to their collarbones. Something is aflutter in her ribcage and this Gryffindor girl wants to shatter into stars, not even her bones enough to keep her down. They are straining because she ought to be flying.

“Because your voice trembles and still you speak.”

“Because your heart will always be the best of you.”

“Because you’ve got a lion’s roar lodged in your throat and when the world finally hears it, it will be brought to its knees.”

Boys like him don’t come wrapped in pretty packages with bows and ribbons-
Boys like him come in sleepless eyes and bruised knuckles.

They see girls like you, with wide eyes and soft lips-
And crave for that vulnerability.
So they wear a smile that’s almost too bright and hold your hand almost too hard,
And they love.

They love you until your heart bleeds and your eyes sting, they love you until you’re too blinded by the daggar they’re twisting into your ribcage.

Girls like you though, they believe that they can kiss their knuckles until they’re healed. So they wait around for boys like him to grow up.

But boys like him don’t grow up, they drain-

and it works every time with girls like you.

—  Excerpt from a book I’ll never write #108

They say don’t fall in love with a girl whose tongue is like honey. Calypso, she’ll drag you to her island and never let you go. Fingers clasped, a grip so cold it burns.

They say don’t fall in love with a girl whose mouth is full of stars. When your lips brushes against hers, you taste ash. Ash and dust and celestial rock from the heavens; her kisses taste of death.

They say don’t fall in love with a girl who keeps fires in her hand. Hestia’s kissed her brow and gifted her flames that could set the entire Earth ablaze. She’s met Death and whispered in his ear, and now, even he fears her.

She’s not soft. The only home she’s known has been the hollow of her ribcage. She is a girl of war.

L.H.Z //  Don’t fall in love with a girl who is chaos incarnate

glynnisi  asked:

Saw your request for writing prompts. Can you write Steve Rogers/Darcy Lewis (ShieldShock), fakeout makeout? Maybe Darcy steps in to help fugitive Steve avoid discovery/capture?

Captain America tastes like what Darcy thinks the color ‘red’ would taste like.  Nothing so cliched as ‘cherry’ or ‘blood’, but something richer, fuller, with a bite…  Raspberries?  Maybe?

It’s about the time she starts wondering if he’d mind moving his large (sweet zombie jesus, SO large) hand a bit further north (up her ribcage, dude, her girls are amazing and are feeling somewhat neglected and rather jealous of the action her mouth is currently getting) perhaps this little ‘show’ has gone on long enough and either they knock this off before she gets any wild ideas (too late!) of they adjourn to a comfier spot.

Steve must have the same thought, because he lifts his head and oh, hello, lips.  And a blush!  She mentally ‘squees’.

“Think they’re gone,” he says and his hand flexes but he doesn’t actually remove it.

“Well, chalk that particular trope up as actually being effective,” she manages.

“Bit too effective,” he says and ah, oh.  Oh, my.

She bites her lip.  “Is it oversharing if I say that I’m kind of in a similar state and wouldn’t mind continuing this, um, somewhere less here?”

He grins.  “My place is in Brooklyn.”

“Mine’s closer.”


Hey, do you remember
The stained khakis and wrinkled shirts
That you always had time
To look down on through expensive sunglasses?
I burned all of them.
Now I kick ass and take names
Be it in sweats or a goddamn dress.
Remember when I could say the ABC’s backwards
But couldn’t pass a class?
I don’t even blink when I take tests anymore
Being the first one up is another damn day.
Remember when you wanted me to look up to you?
To a baby dragon who spit lava instead of smoke?
Screw you, I’ve got mantle in my eyes now.
Remember the chubby lapdog 
That crawled back everytime?
I do, and if you never walked away
She never would have learned to run.
—  remember when you owned my mind? I bought it back, bitch.