Sharp Corners Make Terrible Dinner Conversation Poem by Stephen --

Where do I fit;
in your perception
of me?
Do I bend, contort, and try to
fit
in all those sharp corners?
Perhaps, if my bones were to
break,
I could.
If flesh were more liquid than mass,
if your words
were like boulders
that could pulp my flesh to jam
I could fit into that neat
little
square.
Tucked away with the other
immaterial
things you posses.