Mikk-i

i am delicate and clumsy: a bag of marbles rumbling around, scuffing up her mother's wooden floors. i often find myself asking why i couldn't be made of feathers. i want to be soft and gentle, like mother: weightless and wistfully blown somewhere i'm wanted. no, i had to be a heavy thing that stays when it should roll away. i swallow them one by one. smooth, cold, and round, the glass goes down easy, but words fumble their way out of my tiny mouth. hammers crack, crack, crack at the little orbs until slivers and chunks of each one embed in my stomach, in my chest, and in my throat.