over his ribcage,
lifting his shirt, pulling him closer,
feeling the way his breath hitches,
stumbles,
betrays him.
Then I see ink. Black and bold.
At the bottom of his ribcage.
Above a scar—curved, pale, faded.
Raised enough to catch against my thumb as I lift his shirt higher.
But it’s the tattoo pulling me under...
Eleven words. Two lines. One lyric.
i do not long to be loved
but to be known
Behind Closed Ribs.
My song. On his fucking body.
I stop breathing. Every inch of me goes still.
A war unleashes inside me.
My heart’s attacking my lungs,
using my bones as weapons.
Because of black ink
stamped into his torso.
Courier. Monospaced. All caps.
He felt my song enough to carve it into him.
He knew me before ever touching me.
He’s been holding my scream under his skin
without knowing who it belonged to.
And now it’sthere.
On his ribcage,
the same place mine cracked to write it.
Where something in him must have once broken too.
