i am tired, and my bones are sore and at times
i want to curl up within the ground and
have the tufts of grass and dried up leaves call
me home.
at moments i am so tired of others,
their teeth, too much shown and how it all
seems like paint still trying to dry.
i am tired of men waggling their lips, and i am tired
of women always defending and i am tired of people
pushing my veins inwards.

i feel like weeds trying to grow in botanical gardens.
i cannot fit.
i cannot speak enough or be quiet enough.
i am shoved into outlines designed for others.

i do not know where my fingers should lie, and when i am
drunk and screaming i (almost) feel the most
alive, but then
when i am surrounded by history in beautifully spaced
architecture, i am
(almost) alive.

where do i start and where do i end.

why do bruises on me look like jewelry?
i am nothing. but i am you.
if i bite his shoulders hard enough, i can find bones.
i can find the Great Wall of China.
these lines on hundred year old parchment has become my salvation.

i want to be alone,
yet i want his nails digging me up.
i want to hear her tongue on her teeth,
yet my lungs can't expand
enough.