It seems there is a line formed in my spleen
of people awaiting their turn to twist one of my ribs.
I never expected you to become one of them,
off-centering my whole being.

Somehow my tear-soaked eyes have forgotten
the ability to sleep, the tint of your lips.
It somehow feels wrong to pick out socks in the morning,
or to eat, even when my stomach is yearning.

I don't know which roads to take,
we've driven every single one;
and I can't wear that shirt because
you took it off of me once.

They tell me to enjoy the process.
Yes, I will learn to sing with
my right foot switched with my left,
And I will find solace in the pit I am digging in my stomach,

Until you quit yanking violently
on my bottom left rib.