Thursday, April 16, 2009
You can call me a porcelain doll and I will smile and nod and you will be right. You will be right about the stillness even though this body ran over girls like a truck and propelled its muddy self through air to connect with a ball. You will be right about the order even though my socks never match and the clothes on the floor grow into mountains and the perfect meal never makes its way to the table. You will be right about the quiet even though my heart never sleeps and it won't shut the hell up and my thoughts perseverate in order to be heard over the raucous. It's all true, as every fibre of this living thing contradicts its neighboring ceramic particles.