A curvature of the lower spine
side to side
and I sway unsteady on my limbs,
unequally yoked to the bowl of my hips.
A curvature of the upper spine
bending through the chest
and I rock uneven up and down,
ill-formed bones bowing my head.
And my skin is flecked with dappled marks
in the places the light didn’t touch.
And my follicles bristle
and I resent the thatching of my makeshift hut.
I am too much and not enough
stretched across a gangled frame.
“Let no one eat fruit from you again.”
Connor is a writer and editor, living in Northwest Indiana and Boston, Massachusetts. Follow him on Twitter @keepthemuse for topics like flour, flirting, fanfiction, and the process of becoming a literary highwayman in real time.