This part of my day is called
A Fistful of Muddy Mushrooms

Because I feel like the embodiment of
something edible, yet poisonous;
Pure, yet filthy, putrid, covered
in the refuse of plants that die.

Maybe they should have refused
to die,
Maybe they should have
Tried
to reach their leaves up and up
until
an ant at the bottom felt
like they were BIG ENOUGH
And a giant thought they were just the
right size for dinner salad,

Because when I speak,
My heart strangles my vocal chords,
And my words sound much less of the
perfect
role model I really am.

How could I not be?

I serve young minds and cater to
small minds,
Much smaller than those they serve.

No one told me that growing up would
R.I.P the arms off my former child self,
Dangle the appendages in front of me,
while I watch monster after monster
Eat my flesh. Slowly. Delicately.

Like a dessert.

I wanted to grow up to be a kid.

I got my wish.

At the cost that I
Do Not
Belong
to the good graces of the Good People
around me

and all of us

scattered like leaves on the ground.