i am but
a speck
miserable
and small
a piddling novelty
of leftover crumbs
blown away
in a solitary
breath of air
but this body
is also made
of a thousand
dainty specks
even smaller
than this sad
stuff called me
a dress of
convoluted
little atoms
genes that
only fit me
connected
by stems
and ideas
ladders
of sweet
misery
teaching me
to fall in love
with myself
all over again
but even
in love
i am still
falling
down
rabbit
holes
burrows
of defeat
wondering
to myself:
when will
smallness
equate to
the endless
possibility
to grow?