the Venus de Milo

I've exhausted the poetry on the internet and it gets me anxious -- why haven't they posted something new? Why can I not get a fresh perspective. I'm doing cartwheels that look more like seizures in my underwear. I'm looking in all the wrong places.The bite has softened but I see everything as sharp. The grass is sharp, leaves are technically blades, my hands are technically feet, or bat wings.

Last night I slept on a white couch outside. I was occasionally blown awake by a breeze and finally carried in, all onehundred&twelve pounds of me. Everyone hates their voice and can't believe they sound the way they do. No one can smell what they smell like. I don't even notice when I smile.
I slept then, unknowingly, like the Venus de Milo. Arm draped over my tired breasts, my tired teeth safe in my tired mouth, breathing as if I was not breathing. My tired heart beating safe in my tired chest, thumping as if I was not a statue, as if I had blood and dreams that sang silently. White marble thanks to my complexion, and quiet thanks to my disposition.