dislocated

I have a foot inside my mouth and a tree growing beside my ear. My eyes are petals, my trunk a chest. I feel dislocated. Went to Lisbon this weekend and saw my cousins and saw my friends. I wonder what to say, how to sound rooted, how to connect. Sometimes I know. Sometimes I feel like I'm floating, roots uprooted, a plant outside a vase, hungry for soil, happy to be in mid-air. I don't know how to talk to people I don't know. Is this new or was I always this way?

Do I care what they think? Do I still? I guess I do. I feel embarrassed, I search the words, I want to be nice, just right, not too nice, not too eager to please. I don't care so much what they think, I don't, I really don't. But I always wonder. Why is it that I don't know where I fit? I have a leg inside my ear. My tongue is licking my elbow.

I wish I knew how to speak without saying anything. Language leaves me in silence. I swim for words, like life. The sort of wisdom I only see glimpses of when I wake up happy in the morning, or when I make love without constraints. New people make me shy. They intimidate me. They think many things about me. Some are right, many are wrong. I feel unsure of where I am, where I want to be, where I wish I'll be.

Lisbon confuses me. It rains emotions into my roots, it dries my cheeks, it turns me upside down. Lisbon leaves me breathless, feeling awkward. Alone. It makes me want to be loved. I care about hugs and kisses. I care about bosoms and shoulders. The sky in Lisbon is very raw so it is difficult not to look, like a wound. I'm dislocated. Dislocated. Dislocated. With an arm pressing my crotch. Afraid of being unloved. And missing it so terribly, like blood, or a piece of my soul.