count my ribs

I once dated a med student,
And I’d ask him to count my ribs,
And whisper every bone name,
As he kissed down my spine.

I once dated a med student,
And I’d ask him,
“Where should I stab you, if I wanted to kill you?”
And he said,
“Right here,” as he drew scarlet lines,
Across my wrists, along my jugular.
“Not the heart?” I queried, goosebumps on my skin,
He smiled, and then he said,
“Stabbing not needed, heartbreak is enough.”

I once dated a med student,
And I asked him,
“Where is your heart?”
And he took my hands in his,
And placed it over his chest.
I didn’t tell him this,
But all that did,
Was make mine beat faster.

I once dated a med student,
And I asked him,
“Will you save my life?”
And he said,
“Doctors aren’t miracle workers.”

I once dated a med student,
And he scraped me hollow,
Saw into the depths of my body,
But he couldn’t stay.
Didn’t want to stay.
He forgot the stitches.
Left gaping wounds.

He’s right, you know.
Doctors aren’t miracle workers.
Because all the healing I’ve been doing,
Is entirely on my own.

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