I fiddle with my fingers,
move them along the fold of a fragile dress—
anxious to be accepted;
such an abstract feeling to a body such as me,
drenched in self worth and self words,
bony confidence that so often slithers
off my shoulders,
rolls across my spine, accumulating
until it falls from the backs of my calves
into shallow footprints.
It drowns in my depth,
lungs so inept they hardly exist at all
when even where I walk is more beautiful
(or so they say) than I,
because lately the gravel has been
I'm only hoping it's just a phase—
something inane that won't matter
even if I fail.
Falling from my apple trees and
winter rooftops so pristine,
into the juicy dry of unripe asphalt;
it's no one's fault, of course,
though I wish I could find this No One
Everyone speaks of,
so good at hide and seek,
I haven't got a chance.
So I'll just camp out by the window,
that one rooted to the carpet,
not be pretty-pattering along the streets
so all of me would corrupt the ugly faces
people paint there.
I'll just stay here.