I do not fit
between straight lines
and words that twinge
metallic and cold
as they strike notes
upon my open mind
and upturned palms.
I do not fit between
cities that shriek,
burning inexplicably
and wide open spaces
that stretch repetitively
on past your periphery.
I do not fit between
envelope folds
and crisp little notes,
crying at all the indecisiveness
of my worn edges.
I do not fit between
blue skies that mean nothing,
and a white hot sun
burning holes in it,
overexposing this bleached
and silent landscape.
I do not fit between
tightly packed cubicles
and hungry eyes.
My body moves about
with marionette precision
as the mind screams
with contempt
cool and sharp as glass,
white hot and fleeting,
lustfully arcing
into a shadow of identity.