The Cage

I woke at three, aware

of my ribs, the way they sit,

holding everything there,

contain what gives.

Small hard bones that keep

everything down and in,

the way I've learned to sleep

with the cage beneath my skin.

I pressed my fingers down,

found spaces in between,

wanted marks to crown

the proof that I've been.

The pale circles stayed

for only moments before

the skin returned, had faded,

erased what I was for.

I've held my breath for days,

my chest stays small and tight,

the ribs in all their ways

keep me from my height.

I pressed again this morning,

wanting something real,

wanting without warning

proof of what I feel.

But the marks don't last,

the ribs don't break or bend,

and I'm still held fast

in the cage without end.

Still awake at three,

still pressing at my bone,

still trying to be free,

still trapped and alone.