The Internet Asks Me What Do You Want to Be

I am trying to reword
each instinct for sentencing: I am a plastic
bottle of water, store brand, I am
piling myself into a drawer, I am
spilling out of the back of my shoes
when I walk. I am not made to walk
in heels, lopsided, bottom and top heavy,
small at the waist. I float easily
through a day. I don’t know where
to end each thought, whether I drive
each piece, pedal the commas to a field
of blooming wildflowers, even water flowers
where I can take out my phone to scan
and name them. Some people know
the names of flowers, know exactly when
and how to stop talking so much, the turn
in the conversation when it’s just exhausting.
Gladness, and I am a little patch
of late autumn leaves. I want to wear
everything, to have even
the dirt cut my size so it hangs off me.
I am built to be looked at, or so my mother
told me each night, pulling my fine hairs
back into a braid—to give me body, she’d say.
Gladness, and I am a beautiful body, full
bodied, I’m wine and cheese and artificial
dark chocolate flavored disks. I am
counting the syllables on my stomach
then on my knees, then on the walls,
then on the sky. I am a body. I am not
pulling everything back to the body, I know
the body has been done, is overdone,
is something we all should let go.