A body will never really contain me. 
It can not keep for itself 
The thought gardens growing upside down at the top of my head, 
Inside my skull. 
The seeds will fall down and find their way 
On the tip of my tongue 
And out.

Just for that, I know that I stretch for miles.
Yet people have the nerve to point at a finite mass and call it 
By my name. So I changed what I’m called. 
I glued my label over yours.

A body will never contain me 
Because I refuse to confine myself to something 
That seems to demand hate just because it exists.

A body will never contain me. If I weren’t a writer, 
I’d forget I have hands.

A body will never contain me 
But it used to. All my memories are claustrophobic, 
They all have walls.

I’m in a house. 
I’m on a street, there’s a brick wall to the left 
And a stream of cars on the right, 
I’m contained inside the space just above the narrow strip of concrete 
That is the sidewalk.

There’s a roof above my head. 
There’s a glass window between my temple 
And the rain. 
There’s a floor that’s too far down, 
Even though I’m standing on it, 
And I have to lie flat on my back to stop feeling like I’m falling.

There’s a lack of communication between me and you, 
Between me and me, 
Between this thought and the next.

There’s a cold glare throwing my train of thought off the tracks. 
There’s a moat that fearful crocodiles swim in 
Between me and whatever castle my imagination built on the other side. 
There’s a sudden change of heart, 
A surge of panic.

So maybe it contains me, after all, or
Maybe I contain it, 
Maybe we’re all just walls made of everything we’ve seen or heard, 
Interesting shells, but potentially hollow.

I’ve been spilling what I hold inside 
My whole life, I’ve been spilling ink on the carpet, 
Tears and coffee and paint water, 
But none of it left me. 
Once something was out, I picked it up
And stuck it to the wall.