ownership

my hands don’t belong to my arms, sometimes 

sometimes, my fingers carve patches that 

envelop the long threads of my skin 

 
my feet don’t belong to my ankles, sometimes 

sometimes, my toes crawl and etch prints 

on the sharp edges of browned grass 

 
my head doesn’t go on my neck 

most of the time, it sees the wrong colors 

it reads backwards and unwinds 

there’s nothing, sometimes