A Collection of Small Odds and Ends Hoarding the Space on My Body

If I run like a quiet little river
And the strain it puts on my fragile ankle
Could linger for a moment.

Then maybe I’ll be a fallen tree and lay there until a family of creatures uses me as a home and live a life as confusing as my own.

They'll have dinner at the table and not know it’s my stomach,
Have fights in the living room, ignorant to the fact that it’s in my skull,
Maybe send the kids off to school through my bones,
Or put them to sleep on my shoulders.

But they’re not the only ones who live here anymore,
Because the moss has started to invade my skin.

I feel it crawling like a snail,
Leaving behind a trail.

Sprawling like disease,
A conglomerate of bacteria,
A collection of small odds and ends,
Hoarding the space on my body.

And I don’t want to get up,
Because I don’t want to destroy,
Be a harbinger of death,
To the population of living things gathering on my body,
Inside every cavity and crease.

So maybe I’ll just stay where I am,
Let these things play out for a while.

It’s just a sprain and I could move again,
Live the lives that feed off of mine.

But something about being a planet for exploitation is a humbling way to use up the rest of my days.

I have children through technicalities and none of them know I exist.

Spawn lives through circumstance without any credit for my involvement.

Is this how our mother feels?