My legs and my torso are separate. My legs are exploring and my torso is lost and trying to keep up. An image of a girl through an old television screen, the kind with the bunny ears, technicolor and technicolor and static and lines slashing through my face. I don’t you with who to relate and its so hard because I JUST DON’T KNOW. Everybody is the same all their faces are the same they are all so pretty and they look so soft. Feathers. Top 40s are made from feathers and they snap ugly things like weak little twigs. I feel wrong and I feel weak I am too weak to snap even the smallest twig and they watch me like I have no torso but I do! It’s just a bit behind! I can see the sky from almost everywhere I stand. I look up and I slink my arms over my head and picture all these fake people and all these fake places I love so much looking up at the same sky. I shake freezing crystals off my fingers and imagine a little boy cupping warm ones in his hands. I type love letters on my typewriter to Top 40s and dream of slipping into their skins. Maybe then I would be attached and stay that way. If I had a choice, I would chose to be like them and I know it and that is something I hate about myself. But I don’t and leather sticks to my back as I flip the channels or a girl in technicolor with rainbow static scraping her knees and elbows.