Ode to Bony Keys

My hands run along the pieces.
Wishing to be frail and delicate.
A painter with a brush slowly exploring the canvas.
Like a pianist on his instrument.
My fingers count the keys, slowly moving up in sync with my breaths.image
These keys, neither black nor white, nothing in life ever is.
As the pianist’s fingers move up the keys the sound becomes more beautiful.
With each protruding rib my excitement grows, hoping to become such beauty.
My fingers latch onto my collarbone like I’m rock climbing.
Using my own collarbone like a bar I’m pulling myself onto.
Something, anything to help support the weight.
The weight of my dinner as it sticks to my sides.
The weight of the guilt as my little sister consumes more than I do.
The weight of my stomach filling mainly with water.

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