i call this a heptahedron.

i'm nothing but a washed up cliché  
with pages of poetry locked behind my eyes
and forced under my damaged fingernails.

skin is my canvas, an empty slate,
and i'm painting stars in colors that do not have
names; colors that only exist in my mind.

every day is a wait for 11:11 and the opportunity
to discuss my darkest secrets with four-leaved clovers
and moving lights in the night sky.  

i'm dancing on the tips of my toes
to avoid stepping on cracks in the pavement
and killing a family of ants.

i spend afternoons making up religions  
and teaching them to my stuffed animals
just so i can forget them, myself.  

i'm finding shapes in the clouds
and stained glass in the depths of your eyes,
but i have yet to find a shape in myself.