I wrote this when I was 19. Clearly I was in the throes of anorexia.
Things That Break Easily
What is Inevitable: The window men having to come and install a new window to replace the shattered one.
They smell of bacon but are kind and helpful. They ask no questions.
They Have Seen It All.
In and out, noiseless as shock.
They cart away broken shards, slinging glass like water ,
Commenting: close those tree branches come close to your window,
good glass like this could scratch easily, even break with wind.
Maybe someone should think about cutting that tree down.
What can a body achieve?
What limits can we really take it to?
I was a tree!
I stood all night looking in my own room
dipping on, the wind pulling me this way and that.
I watched neighbors drink and knit in my new tree body
as a pile of sticks curled and slept in my bed.
But even this, this is not much.
I couldn’t unearth myself,
I couldn’t slither out of bark
and into the apartment across the way.
I could not become timeless.
Or as heartbreaking as the man hunched over his piano with the random tufts of hair.
Not into my past or anyone else’s present,
I could only slip into the earth.
I could not fit my body in the head of the sewing needle.
Looking out at the world through nothing but a perfect steel slit.
Perfection is Perspective.