craft project

scuffed paint, worn and torn, 

reminds me of how my skin has 

changed shape like a child’s clumsy craft project– 

messy, my insides a clutter of 

bits and pieces– screws, glue, and beads. 

the lawn lies dead; lots of people are around, 

but i’m still so lonely– surrounded by

screws, glue, and beads that cling to my shell,

reminding me of who I once was—

forever someone others pry at curiously,

like a bandaid on their healing scrapes.

I will forever be the culprit, 

of another’s glare, blissfully unaware, 

of the unraveling craft project I've become—

my mind is scattered about the page, 

smeared and smushed by their fingers– 

my thoughts are the paint they 

twist to reshape their own insecurities.

for dinner, i eat beads because 

they don’t make me bloated– 

glue coats my stomach lining, clinging to 

me like the hugs i once believed in,

from those i thought i could trust,

those I admired too much– 

now, they are lost in the sand 

that i eat for breakfast because 

it doesn’t make me bloated.