When I was made, they used little dashes of dissatisfaction and mistrust
just a smidgeon of sarcasm and dollops of anger and resentment.
They folded me together with spoons made of compassion
which melted off into the mixture, eventually cracking under the pressure.
When they ripped me apart, they found half-naked barbie dolls,
and ice cream scoops melting on the grass strewn ground,
bee stings that had inflamed my limbs and splinters
which had sunk into my skin to rest next to the bones.
Now when I create, I drip into my creations, leaving behind
spilled water glasses and drops of jealousy and half-forgotten lyrics
of summer time classics that stick in your head like burrs on
a new red felt winter coat.
When I die, I'll leave behind impressions of my head in my pillow
and an unwashed cereal bowl in the sink, and a piles of ashes in my wake.
I'll forget mornings and afternoons spent telling time by the bouncing sun.
I hope I leave tears.