millipede 

i give myself a new leg 
every time i'm lost.
it started with just ten
& then i was running away
from a family house.
the mailbox full of hair. & then
i was eating breakfast
at a window everyone in the world
could see through.
my legs grow legs. my legs grow 
hunger to be herd animals.
there is safety in numbers
or so i am told. i imagine standing
in a room of legs.
the legs i need to get out of here 
& the legs i need to get back. 
i have moved at least
once a year since i was seventeen
& this year is the year i will break it.
it terrifies me. what if i am 
in a portrait no one told me
they were painting? what if
my father apologizes &
i have to love him in a new way. 
what if i am not capable 
& instead i wake up & my legs
are taking me somewhere new.
somewhere damp & covered
in moss. i try to be gentle
to the new limbs but sometimes
i'm angry. i see them as 
just another impulse to get out.
to cross the country. to burrow
in the veins of a dying city.
the truth is none of my legs
are good for running. not the ones
on my body or the ones to come.
my legs fold & ache. my legs tell me
i am going to regret something
in the morning. in the end 
they are agents of orbit. 
someone will come & ask,
"where are you from?" & i will
admit, "right here." i point
to my eye. there is, like a snow globe
a perfect replica of the house
where i learned terror
& comfort eat from each other's hands. 
these are the bread crumbs
of my little lineage. a rapunzel rope
out a window. another leg
to reach the sky's collarbone.