***
those flowers
I can almost taste them
like icecream
berry and vanilla
delicious

Each
perfectly
enounsed
syllable
spills from her lips
and drifts down to the floor
rustling like dried leaves in the corner

hips are farther apart when I sit, hands are toes are
spread fingers like spindles like broken into minute portions of
matter, moving about in this



                                
                            ­             big                            &                        empty




                                                       not mov
                                                              ing but
                                                              breath
                                                                   ing and
                                                                   tingl
                                                                        ing, too

Sometimes I feel as if
cigarette butts are
bread crumbs
for grown ups.

your yawns stretch
their fragile morning limbs to
the top of your lungs:

breathe in -- quick quick,
don't let your breath stick
to the bottom of your
throat -- breathe out.

legs stick-straight
my hips don't gyrate
my hair's not well-trained
and my ******* aren't the same
size

my eyes
aren't bambi-watching-his-mother-get-strapped-to-the-back-of-a-van-BIG
they're not blue like the atlantic, but grey like
cigarette ashes.

my eye-lashes aren't a foot in length,
they don't billow when I blink
and I've lost so many, a ton,
ones that I didn't even
get to
wish
on.