meghannisms

meghannisms

Sometimes, I find it fun to assess my assets,
but the things which I am blessed with
are also things people
might consider I am vexed with…

I've got a straggler on my chest, perfectly placed and about a pinky-nail's length long.
She's brown against my lambent complexion, strutting her tenacity.
and at this moment, I've found an affection
for her subtle ferocity,
so I surrender to her stubbornness.
Besides, I've grown used to her
growing on me.

As I stare down my body's length,
A faint supine line dashes perpendicular and opposite my spine...
I've always wondered why it's there, sometimes sucked in a bit to hide it.
But now I abide by it: my carefully placed crochet.
I survey the way my hips jut out,
little cliffs my fingertips leap off into my omphalos…
I lift my hand up to my lips:
Me thinks they're going to go to waste for way too long a time;
they tremble at the thought, my recently celibate brinks.


Next, I inspect the starring roles of my dearest sense…
first, my index, then left to pinky. My eyes stroll back to my preferred phalange:
my thumb; yeah, he's the thinnest one.
Overall, we're way too chubs to ever be worthy of
a pretty ring,
which is why I stick to bangle bracelets that sing.


Onto my next tiny quirk:
my voice (I've heard) sounds quite absurd when my intentions are set on
the likes of a lousy impression. I hear I squeal
my silly pants off…
I assume it's as beguiling as my convection
when I go to get my dance on.

Let's add one long appendage to this list which
indexes my behavioral lisps:
my handwriting isn't fancy
a goldfish has a better memory than me
I burn too easily...
a dainty, pink little lady.
I pick the blebs on my chin
my toes have undeniably-rough skin
I'll pick dry boogies and flick them
Without malice, I slam car doors
my room is far from a palace
I lose things,
a lot.
a goldfish has a better memory than me.

some sickness comes up when I drink sometimes
I think too much
I say too much
and i've got this hunch,
that will never adjust...

I sing without consent.
My shins are filled with dents.
I tend not to make sense,
especially when I'm crying, I can't control
my voice, my tone, let alone my assessment
of the given situation…

The reason for reeling off all of my faults?
Unlocking this large vault of quirks and blurbs
about my world?

“what is life, but reckoning?”