The Mess

My nose becomes a leaky faucet

whenever I eat soup. The bed must

be remade each day because I sleep

so wildly. My breasts are a treasure trove

of crumbs that I keep for no birds save

myself. I have the posture of a sloth. My

hands become magically stained in ink

each time they grip a pen. I have a head full

of clouds but a mouth full of soil. My feet

live in the sky while my dreams rest back down

on the Earth. I’ve got eyes filled with stars that

don’t exist in the universe anymore. I’ve got

a garden of poorly-written weeds for every person

who loves me. I’ve got seven fields of thistle poetry for

each person who will never love me back. My

aspirations would be a full force steam engine

but it ran out of water. I’ve got at least three

fountains of youth in my back pocket that

will run dry with all the time I spend lost

in the split hourglass desert that I refer

to as my brain. My thoughts are running

without any feet. I laugh at bad jokes.

I measure my worth by the teaspoons.

I’m not sure how to end this poem.

I’m terrible at time management.

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