I do not count the cracks that riddle my small hands.

I am amazed by their ability to remain soft and pure.

Made up expressions in the thick skin, muddy and brown.

Lines, running, corner to sharp corner, never pausing nor disappearing.

Like a ghost, they say, my skin hides the smaller things, I do not hide in my skin.

Dark brown yarn falls again my forehead, a simple frame for a simple picture.

Delicate, chocolate brown in the deep crevices where the two cliffs seem to meet beneath my arms

And the large hills that connect to form the folds between the upper and lower parts

Dark half-moons reside beneath two endless abysses, covered by soft bristle lashes.

The roundness of mother's soft lips are marred with red, nervous and hiding from sight.

Father's nose is confident, thick and bulbous, ever leading and persistent.

Heavy branches, long and protruding, flow from tree trunk.

Continuous and outspoken, grasping and curling, skinny like twigs yet strong like roots.

Curious little creatures, making visits to finer folk, second long appendage, the most festive type.

My father's feet are no stranger, they arrive before few, flat and lively, unable to prance

Tapping off-beat in tandem.

In the morning, I am clay sculpture, raw and rich with cracks and blotches of paint

I am picture in yarn frame

I am expressive skin, deep dark crevice in arms.

Half-moon, no sleep, eyelash curtained abysses

Mother's bitten lips, Father's knowing nose.

Big branch arms and tree trunk body, twig fingered and long second toe

Off rhythm feet, quick to party and last to leave.