settle in the introspective,
owl blinks, I am looking at
my hands, but really
I'm not.
burrow in smudged ink
from sweaty palms,
vision gets lazy hazy, turns to ocean,
turns to you.
fetal position, I draw my index finger up and down
my leg
because,

movement
is
fascinating.

I swear I can feel my finger prints,
every little swirled line's texture
on my knee.
my ribcage creaks at me,
turning onto it and grabbing my
knees to my chest.
the water drip drip drips
like a fleet of liquid ballet
down my scalp down my forehead,
so forth and so forth.
they, the dancers' feet, placate me
in their watery voice, girlish giggles:
'child, child;'

it occurs to me that I am only
drowning
because I do not release a single thing.

instead of arms, now,
I have branch upon branch,
root upon root upon root,
so firmly stuck in dirt
that it will take a great deal to
unearth me,
I'm afraid.