I haven’t moved in a while.

My right arm is curled

up underneath my shirt

because it is comfortable

to touch my own skin.

My thighs too warm

but my feet are too cold.

I am not comfortable here.

Here as in

any plane of existence,

physical space I can inhabit,

position I can warp my body into.

I am a turtle separated from its shell,

and therefore,

its spine.

Have you ever watched an octopus

melt into a space that was simply too small

for eight arms and a pulsing head?

Perhaps an octopus

is too exotic an example—

imagine, rather, a housecat

that stuffs itself into

an oddly shaped vase

that you thought was surely too skinny

for its rotund belly.

I, too, wonder what shapes I’m taking

that I was not meant for.

But I can see my bones through my skin and

I have nothing concealing

how small I am.

I’m far too angular,

too hard at the edges but

delicate on the inside.

I’m one bone cage away from

someone poking a hole in my heart

and killing me instantly.

I have too many ligaments and

muscle groups and other things 

that I’m told are in there (but I’ve never seen)

to be able to morph my body

the way that octopus did.

Maybe that’s why,

wherever I am

and wherever I’ve been,

I’ve never felt comfortable.

I was not built for this world.

I don’t know what I was built for;

perhaps nothing at all.

Perhaps I am just part of a long list

of cosmic accidents,

creatures that necessitate theories like

macroevolution and natural selection,

walking sets of organs

that exist solely for the purpose

of teaching a species what not to be.

I am your counterexample.

I am a combination

of everything that makes up you,

but somehow,

I’m not quite as right.

My right hand is curled up

against my collarbone and

I can feel my elbow rising and falling

with the movement of my lungs.

I am unable to move any more.