i am this chaotic wreck of sudden twists and sporadic movements. my fingers twitch and grab while i fall asleep, too. scarred up hands cannot rest easy when i wish them--i want to pull at the threads in the ribbed gray fabric you wrap yourself in and i want to press down into your white shell skin and make it sink in around my thumbs. god, my fingers look like a smudge of soot and nasty against your thighs. my palms are grinding dirt into your sheets and smearing my name across your wall. i was here. i was here. (i am here.) i like to write and talk; my fingers like to paint around the letters i spit out. trace them until they're engraved and carved deep into your skin. carved of wood and painted pretty, just like a marionette. very impressive. you look beautiful. and i sigh really soft when it's dark outside.
when my sighing and my prodding keeps you awake.
i wonder when it is i'll meet someone real.
who will like to feel someone breathing beside her.
so she knows that she's still there.
i wonder who will make me the orange and yellow birds
they paint around their windowsills and mirrors.
first thing they see in the mornings.
and maybe i will be someone's sunshine, too.
