Rib cage

I stare at the reflections of all my selves from my ribcage.
Sometimes, they are lined up in a single file, like how I used to line up my rubber ducks as a child. They gather along my sternum and shift into miniature wooden mannequins. No eyes, teeth, skin, or bones.

And then, during those opposite days, they silently sink within me,
my skin becoming quicksand for a heartbeat. I can’t see them, but my bones talk to me in waves and tell me their whereabouts.

And when my body is silent, and I fail at bribing it into a short conversation, my dreams jump in. I see my souls hanging in a room, their toeless feet planted on the ceiling: red clothes and floating feathered hair. One smiles, one cries, and one frowns, while the last spirit stares on, expressionless, wide eyes. She is the one who looks most like me.

She is silent because I haven’t spoken in years. She is numb because she learned quietness from me.