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July 31^st

I look at myself, like a thing.

My fingers are segmented, I am segmented:

I might be a worm, I might seek out ways to segment myself,

to grow someone new.

But I grow myself in segments, and they have borders:

people ask me: why do you do this, why are you

the way that you are,

and I blink. I look at my fingers, at the palm of my hand.

I grow myself, like a worm,

like a single-cell, like a thing. I am all of these,

I am someone new and cut into pieces.

I grow myself, I leave places: I worm my way through the dirt.

My fingertips exist, in pieces. The scars exist;

I categorize them: I can point and shoot,

point and shoot, asking for an answer.

But my life is in segments, in borders, in worms –

in fingers and in single cells,

in why, why, why are you like this,

and I stare at my hand, it is July 31^st,

and I am a thing, she says, just a thing, just a thing.