I can only tell my left from my right
because of a tiny freckle on my right pinkie
A surreptitious glance downward
(I've learned to do it so quick you can't tell)
and it's the same thing as knowing.

My hands are small
but only in comparison to others
in the context of my wrist
from the vantage point of
the top of my nose
they feel like grotesquely large monsters
with their own plans and desires

I've got plans too, though.
I've got tremendous aspirations,
that don't involve this place
I'm for indulging in explorations
of new locations, bodies, brains
I've got high expectations
and a thousand and one questions
don't ask for explanations
unless you're ready to hear them

I get too nervous to speak,
I'd rather read your face than your words
I'm firmly grounded in the assumption
that everyone can read my mind

I can't talk to strangers
and I'm too honest to shield my heart
or end this poem.