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.