How my right index fingernail curls under,
causing it to hook guitar strings,
requiring attention and constant care.
How my semi-polytheistic agnosticism
screws up conversations about
the nature of reality.
How my fatness and my diabetes
are connected and correlated by others;
endless, wearying blood and food vigilance
for the latter has led to a decrease
in the former, which is less of an issue for me
yet is always a source of first comment for others
praising me for decreasing in size;
I tell them it’s because of illness,
they say “but still…” and I let it ride.
How inconsistent I am
in love for any and all,
essentially a damn island
when it comes to honoring
connection; how selfish I am
at heart; how mechanically I surmount that
for the sake of appearance; how easy
I find it to dissemble in such a way;
how frightened I am of slipping.
How flat my feet, how dumb my legs
for running; how silly my eyes look
when I am trying to forget what I’ve seen.
How death smells like roses
wherever I find it waiting round the corners
on my path. How I love the smell of roses.
How easily I could make this list
last and last, growing longer and
wider, faster and faster with the piling on.
How thin these scratches on my surface
go all the way through.