isabella rossellini speaks to me

When I was little, I used to eat packing peanuts. that styrofoam shreik would echo a shiver that shoots through your face down your bones and out the tips your fingers and toes I had to stop though the other kids made fun of me and I had these horrible cramps

happiness, lice overboard the kindness of strangers theres a tape worm who crawls out of my foot every time you say my name

happiness? it feels like i've lost little parts of myself i flip through pictures two, eight, ten years ago, I count the particles falling off like dandruff everything I thought I was, could be, worn away by friction days, months, years passing through each other

little bits of me lost between couch cushions, under garbage cans, hiding in the shrubs where isabella rosselini spoke to me outside the house where i lived when i was three, where i knew nothing and never ate peanuts