The truth is I ride the bus and hope that I see you.
I cross my legs and uncross them, hold my own hand.
The piano in my living room is never touched.
I can’t stop eating peanut butter with my fingers.
My shorts are too short, probably, and this is the reason
that strange men stop and look at me as I walk past them.
I check my teeth for traces of lipstick,
forget to look both ways before crossing the street.
I am not always careful with the body I’ve been given.
Sometimes I want to dye my hair purple or cut it off
and give it to a child with cancer.
Sometimes I am selfish
and never want to cut it, ever.
Everyday it is the same
number of bobby pins.
I want to find a poem in this.