My life has become breadcrumbs, little pieces broken off scattered in the dark. They get stepped on; they get lost. They get gobbled up by mangy pigeons, not the least bit happy to leave me a smidgen. It’s not as if I want much,
a little chunk to call my own. Here, take the carcass. But leave a bone. I’m a tendril, stirrup-shaped stapes. You can’t see me. I’m set in place, stuck as an oyster, hard to shuck, wasting time lying in muck, kicked over, picked up and thrown down. I feel
smaller than a grain of sand. I am bluer than the bluest ocean. Is it too much to want a little more? Am I’m I selfish for not settling for scraps? I grow anxious watching time lapse. I’m useless as a dried tea bag that’s discarded in the
trash. I’m picked over as the bargain bin. No one knows my anguish or suffering. I grew up a sliver, so I stick in people as a splinter, until the pain’s unbearable. If you wanted to measure my worth it’d be negligible, except for my hurt.