Levi Welch (18)
Skeleton Boy
Honorable Mention in the Ribs Contest
//
And he traces his fingers along his ribs. They used to peek out when he was younger. He thought of them as little friends, peering out from the world of flesh and bone to the world of the living. He liked them, and he thought that they liked him. He was sad when they were covered and hidden by the weight of insecurities and late nights and seconds. He mourned their loss with a funeral. He wrote a eulogy that he burned into his skin:
Skeleton boys smile wider.
His friends have returned. And they are angry. They are angry that they had to go away, that he would want to hide them. So they are back, but cold and bitter and aloof. They punish him by mocking the rolls and the bulges and the lines. They laugh at him in hideous cackles that slice the air and his ears. They ration his food. He is scared even of the scraps he’s allowed to consume; it is all probably a trick. It is better to starve than to succumb to the poisons of his
past. He has spit out the venom, and now he can be the skeleton boy he dreams about.
And so it goes. His fingers trace and his eyes widen and a part of him is proud. He feels as if he is standing on a stage accepting an award and that he is facing an audience of the fears and ghouls and vampires that whispered in his ears, “you’re not good enough,” “you are a fat pig,” “no one could ever love a thing like you,” and it is his turn to prove them wrong. Yet he can’t. Each time he tries to talk the audience whispers and groans and boos and shouts and he doesn’t feel like much of a winner anymore.
He tries harder. He throws away the lunches packed each day. He pushes around the clumps on his plate until it looks like he devoured the entire helping. He puts the meals into his mouth and chews them until they are mush and then spits them out in the toilet. He gets the thrill, but he doesn't have to bear the burden. He gets closer every single day. He stands and his head spins and drowns in dizziness and he feels like he is winning.
He is winning.
He is a skeleton boy. He is the opinions of the people on the street. He is not the love that he doesn’t deserve. He is the starving. He is the scale.
He is the ribs that taunt him and drive him and love him and hate him.
and the skeleton boy danced with his ribs until he could not stand anymore.
\\
Levi Welch is 18 years old, an aspiring actor/writer and a Taylor Swift enthusiast from a small town in rural America. He is fascinated by the way words, when arranged together, can communicate an array of different feelings and stories. His work is often deeply personal and influenced by a love for metaphors and imagery. He will be attending Loyola University Chicago in the fall of 2018 as a Theatre and English major.
Skeleton Boy
Honorable Mention in the Ribs Contest
//
And he traces his fingers along his ribs. They used to peek out when he was younger. He thought of them as little friends, peering out from the world of flesh and bone to the world of the living. He liked them, and he thought that they liked him. He was sad when they were covered and hidden by the weight of insecurities and late nights and seconds. He mourned their loss with a funeral. He wrote a eulogy that he burned into his skin:
Skeleton boys smile wider.
His friends have returned. And they are angry. They are angry that they had to go away, that he would want to hide them. So they are back, but cold and bitter and aloof. They punish him by mocking the rolls and the bulges and the lines. They laugh at him in hideous cackles that slice the air and his ears. They ration his food. He is scared even of the scraps he’s allowed to consume; it is all probably a trick. It is better to starve than to succumb to the poisons of his
past. He has spit out the venom, and now he can be the skeleton boy he dreams about.
And so it goes. His fingers trace and his eyes widen and a part of him is proud. He feels as if he is standing on a stage accepting an award and that he is facing an audience of the fears and ghouls and vampires that whispered in his ears, “you’re not good enough,” “you are a fat pig,” “no one could ever love a thing like you,” and it is his turn to prove them wrong. Yet he can’t. Each time he tries to talk the audience whispers and groans and boos and shouts and he doesn’t feel like much of a winner anymore.
He tries harder. He throws away the lunches packed each day. He pushes around the clumps on his plate until it looks like he devoured the entire helping. He puts the meals into his mouth and chews them until they are mush and then spits them out in the toilet. He gets the thrill, but he doesn't have to bear the burden. He gets closer every single day. He stands and his head spins and drowns in dizziness and he feels like he is winning.
He is winning.
He is a skeleton boy. He is the opinions of the people on the street. He is not the love that he doesn’t deserve. He is the starving. He is the scale.
He is the ribs that taunt him and drive him and love him and hate him.
and the skeleton boy danced with his ribs until he could not stand anymore.
\\
Levi Welch is 18 years old, an aspiring actor/writer and a Taylor Swift enthusiast from a small town in rural America. He is fascinated by the way words, when arranged together, can communicate an array of different feelings and stories. His work is often deeply personal and influenced by a love for metaphors and imagery. He will be attending Loyola University Chicago in the fall of 2018 as a Theatre and English major.
