I am common. seemingly feminine but shoulders strong as barbed-wire. like a chicken I am underdeveloped—my wings weak and unable to lift me into the air. I am preoccupied in self-identified war with the 875 square foot apartment and the pasta that refuses to boil. on my knees, I crawl reconciling rhyme and reason for suffering. the world has gone awry, I say to myself on an afternoon bike ride through wooded pain, my face a perfect plane for scathing branches. quick and easy blood am I. wretched and astonishing is the rhetoric I find in the hollow of my rib. I am common but not so when written by hand.