I feel splotchy.
Like one-hundred different puzzle pieces
from one-hundred different puzzles,
open ends stretching for another.
We fit together okay,
but our picture is a messy one.

My arm is a branch
with birds for leaves.
My bathroom-tile skin
littered with graffiti,
chafes against
my lighthouse leg
in a Kintsugi shoe.

At night, when I sleep or pretend,
little bugs gnaw on me
and spin their memory thread
through the notches of my railroad spine,
between my scissor fingers
and pipe-cleaner toes.

We get along.