this is about me and this is about me and this is about me. i don't know what to do with my hands anymore. they feel pure, cold, and irrationally calculated. i no longer understand their trajectory. i'm constantly searching for mountains to cling to or a dandelion to pull apart. i found satisfaction in sanding away at the chair; it atrophied into a puddle of dust and feathers and your body parts. and it's all forming to the floor now. you're all forming to the floor now.
soon i find that i am walking on your jawline
sleeping on the palm of your hand
vacuuming away your hair
mixing up your bones with my toothbrush
i found your stomach in the pantry which had swallowed all my photographs
your teeth were hiding under the sofa
and i discovered your kneecaps resting on the windowsill
i heard your voice when i was in the shower
i didn't mean to spill lemonade on your eardrum, but what were you doing forming to the living room floor?
i'm sorry i danced on your heart, but couldn't you have found a better place to diffuse your innards than my apartment?
besides
i am merely a dragonfly made of glass
a life is a life is a life
and i am brittle and bitter
i'm trying to be polite, but what i'm really trying to say is: i'm tired of tip toeing around my bedroom to avoid stepping on your glassy eyes when i'm in a rush in the mornings and i can't always be careful about where i'm stepping anymore and you aren't leaving me enough room in here for building sandcastles which you know is what i have always dreamed of and you are making this small space complicated and here, this is for you: you are free, you are free, you are freezing.