in this room in which I should fall asleep, I can’t help but stare at the ceiling
and watch as dust particles dance across my vision. they dance
like I do, not much of a dance, but more like a shaky gait from one point to another,
with awkwardly bent arms that jellyfish from
side to side.
I climb out the window onto the roof. it's hot. my hands and feet burn
from the black sandpaper-y roof. but I like the burning,
it finally feels like something, so I stay there.
I like the satisfaction of the sweat beads that cascade
down my back, rugged and bony like a
it sides wedged between my desk and closet door, on it my flower pot
crudely crafted in the ripe age of fourth grade. it has a large split down its belly
broken, but not broken enough to fix
kind of like me.
too broken to use properly, but not broken enough to receive concern
or to fix.