There is something of the accidental,
the eye of the collector, inadvertent
and endeared to the small, odd gift.
Perhaps I was anchored
and the lanterns lit my limbs
like dried sticks, deciduous
and prone to tiny thrushes
lining the rungs of my ribs.
Now all the dresses are worn
and unwashed, their hems dwindling
to floss, and something to be said
of obsession, this locked box,
and voices rattling the glass.
I was a footnote,
a honey comb.
I was the muddy bottom beneath the ruin.
The point at which all the objects
rename themselves,
their tiny imaginary lives.
- kristy bowen, bebe marie
![Ishy ; (This is wusupp'] [: by ishthefish](http://25.media.tumblr.com/avatar_bd7b757a66b6_24.png "Ishy ; (This is wusupp'] [: by ishthefish"){kind=avatar}
