From my nose,
my lips and eyes–,

strings.

I’m attached to
white.

There’s a nutcracker
in my throat.

I squirm,
go down the drain–,

Slime, slime,
and strings.

Its on my legs,
my chin,
in the smell, the air.

I’m attached to home,
to the lingering
blue
of my favorite room.

If ceramic dolls were
bowls,
I’d mark them all.