What I am: a sack of body that I lug around. Air, water, a little bit of moon. A list of chores waiting to be completed. A bank account in my name. A check from the government. Free lunch. A clothing stipend every three months. Watered and (sometimes) fed so the money will keep coming in. The top bunk of the bunk bed. A house of wails. A house of the forgotten. Aunty-full. Aunty-less. A body and a shadow. A tiptoe across the floorboards. A fingerprint on glass. A small heartbeat, suspended in air. I can take up such little space, I promise. I can be loved. It won’t cost you much. You won’t
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