I Statement

I Statement

When you suffer, you become this crooked thing my itchy fingers want to straighten, to fix

the apple Eve took a bite of-no longer whole, but a culprit of the fallen world, shattering 

my ideal that everything needs to be perfect.

You lose solidity, turn into mud my hands cannot contain, or a wildflower in the rain

longing for a home, anything but this selfish demand for perfection.