Mars Jones (he/they) // Contributor
Please put me together in a way that I can’t
Show me how my hands can fit in yours
Show me how my pieces can fit into my other ones and please remove my ugly parts
I can’t bear to get rid of them
I hoard every piece of myself and I can’t fit into the box I’m supposed to
You can take every part of me
You can build them in any way you’d like
And I will be whatever you like
Because there’s nothing else I can be anyways
There’s nothing else I’d know to be anyways
I begged like I was at the foot of the cross, but
the room is empty and your footsteps have long since echoed out.
Can a shirt stitch itself up when it’s full of holes? Or will it sew itself off at the neck?
Sorry the metaphor is frayed. Sorry the meaning gets twisted through layers of fabric.
I am finding holes as I go.
I am still learning which piece goes where
and what hand fits in what hand.
I am learning vowels you never taught me
and I am learning apologies that don’t end with sorry.
