I throw a parade of thirty reasons you shouldn’t love me.
Shut up, you say, I know what I love.
What can you know? I know
 
only that there is no constancy to this body—
I am gaseous, vapor, water and solid. I swell. I shrink.
I bloat. My heels are hardening as we speak. 
 
I run off an ounce of sweat, then gorge on bread and oil.
I claim my nails are short yet manage to claw you.
I call my hair long, but geometry dictates that strands must be
 
growing every possible length in between.
Shut up, you say. Come to bed.
Do you know that when I lay down, the loosening muscles
 
cause me to grow an inch taller?
Love, please listen to me, I am trying to help you.
Love, you are wasting these elephants and this ticker tape.

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