me

two lips press together
dry, but not chapped
to try and smooth
what is already soft

small hands grasp
big cameras
metaphors for bigger dreams

with nails chipped and
painted gold
attached to arms
that wrap around
shoulder, waists
the same nails drag along
concrete streets
and wish to save
a dozen lives a day
when they can’t save themselves

inconsistency is the consistency
of your flesh and bones
for singularity is never enough
but it’s always what you
go back to

made of paper-maché
solid, yet hollow
lightweight, yet keeps it’s place
you are magazines held together
with paste

brown matching brown
and a face forever
somber

sometimes you find yourself
walking unfamiliar paths
but you trust your feet
to lead you straight
for they understand better
than your own head

sometimes
you’re a singular body
in a sea of multiples
vision tunnels and corners turn
white