Hands are shaking

are those mine?

I’m not sure who’s hands these are since that summer

I’m not sure who’s hands these are since that summer

It is so strange so strange so strange

I am so sorry so sorry so sorry.

It is all my fault that the floor stretching out beneath

doesn’t seem to be there for me to step anymore

that the air around me seems to be thicker

time seems to go quicker

my fingers find their way into my mouth

my teeth find the snap and the resistance of my nails

that I have used to join my two joints of wood

to the nub

till they are bleeding

till I have nothing left but oxidized iron

until the cartilage or keratin

or whatever the organic parts

of not-me are made out of are scattered

in a circle closing

till my mind winds up

and down and up and down

like the music box ballerina posed

sugar plum fairy

statuesque in her pirouette

waltz of the flowers

the click of the gears and the sizes

of the perfect metal

of the stiffened amino acid proteins

of my skin with the exclusion of when you find the perfect

color of the perfect permanent marker-

a careless brush of the thumb

unknowingly ending in a sick

purplish pinkish blush smeared across vintage ceramic face

had the purple taken her bright teeth

had the pink taken away the reach of her joy to her eyes

had I taken away even her size?

because of an accidental assumption

I had been the one that knocked her broken and loose

I am sorry I am sorry I am sorry