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a poem about the things we want, and how not all of them are the things we need

�"I want to see my bones

�"I want to see my limbs

�"I want to look like maybe I haven’t even lived

�"I want boney fingers

�"and I want blood red lips

�"I want to put self-hatred into hair below my hips

�"I want a flat physique

�"from nose to chest to tum

�"I want the potential that I could be someone

�"I want to not feel empty

�"I don’t want to be alone

�"but  what I want most of all is to make myself at home