If I count on the hours to happen
regularly, I’d be stuck in
a jar, afraid of measurement against
anything.
Instead, my cells vibrate against
all odds. I crack eggs, scrambling
locked brains, eating for the
sake of eating.
I have only been substantial forever.
Nothing more. Just my face,
along with legs, and hands that
move like a floppy clock.
But my name, now that is something.
Every hour that comes,
every hour that goes,
will remember my name,
just the way my cells will remember
how small I am,
like an ant stuck in a jar,
burning from the most toxic hour.
maggiemaeijustsaythis 
I love this!
I love hearing that. Thank you for leaving a comment. Thank you for reading!!
Like breathing in, breathing in what remains to past fermenting honey in a jar. Every word fills ones senses.
Thank you for reading my blog. You tell me also of my sister, an anorexic. She doesn’t have a brain, face or name as you do. You are not an ant in a jar.