Sometimes I am so small

That my china doll ribs jut out past my stomach.

Sometimes I am so large that I want to tear out what makes me human.

Sometimes I admire the light,

Filtering in, onto my unmade bed.

Sometimes the cat hair meadow of my sheets makes me sneeze.

Sometimes I am fascinated by the unevenly dyed surface of my best friends hair.

Or her joyous joke laughter, light foundation.

Sometimes I howl at the moon;

I always want more. Nothing is ever enough and I have gotten more than I have deserved, yes, kept people too long, yes.

I have seen bruises of soft wine and duckling down, speckled rain water.

I have cracked the surface of surly boys, whining puppies with oily fur. I have held the tender hand of mishap girls, so beautiful and lamb-like in their pews of unholy sea swept locks, so blonde and so mahogany.

Sometimes, when my calico flashes her teeth at me, ivory from peach, I kiss her nose.

I miss the womb of first falling in love, falling into her hands, her painted fingernails. Her supple palms like seashells.

I have fallen gracefully into a lake of eternity and entropy, a bed of callalilies and the ripples above me form framed pictures of people I only see in dreams.