often i think that growing up

is just a series of little deaths

one after the other after the other

and that each day i uncurl from a new

cocoon of tangled sheets

and weepy eyes

to create myself anew

my skin the canvas, my sweat the paint

pheromones for color, tears for depth

i could glue together angel wings out

of fabric scraps & scribbled notes

with all the words i have not said for paste

and fly away on the same old twine

that held young icarus against the sky

before he plummeted & disappeared

so fateful & so young beneath

the sun’s uncaring, jaundiced eye

i am falling; my strings are wearing

& soon, so soon, too soon

i will have to find my own terrible bottom

to stand upon.