turtle shell

i made a turtle shell for myself
out of picture frames, doorknobs & gravity,
as i lay on my stomach next to my bed,
i was thinking about our pet red-ear slider
& her body, how she would dry herself
on the rock in the middle of her blue kiddie pool;
her face & shell becoming flaky 
in the heat lamp stare. we kept her
pool in the basement in the winter
& we would forget about her
for all those months. walking
around upstairs with our two-legs
& pink unprotected fingers. Occasionally,
dad would remember her & the two
of us would rush down 
the wooden basement stairs 
to check if she was alive. there she'd be 
scratching at the plastic lip 
of her solar system,
sometimes orbiting the sunning stone
forever at the center. i think 
of the way her greyish skin stretched
at the edges of the shell sewn 
into the structure. i feel that sensation
happening to me in each bedroom 
i've ever existed in, my body
attaching gently to the windows
& door. i ask myself how many people
can fit inside a turtle shell & 
i blink & there i'm standing 
inside the shell of our little turtle
from years ago, there's a chandelier 
hanging & no space for anyone else
despite the room being wide & open. space is
not always physical. i write your name
on the floor & the walls, thinking
of how we could use this place 
for ballroom dancing. i wonder if
you ever feel like this,
the body making a room of you.
the turtle ducks her head inside
& blinks; eyes dull planets: i turned one 
as a door knob to escape &
there i am again. i find my room
full of dried turtle shells,
all the flesh of the creatures
on rotted away. i try them
on but don't look in in the mirror.
none of them are the right size.
i hide them in the basement & at night
when you come sleep over.
i hear the scratching.