A Group project of Limbs and Intention

I am a group project.
Of limbs and intention.
None of us are speaking.

The brain?
The anxious overachiever
who drafts a Gantt chart
for walking down the hallway
and still forgets where we’re going.

The legs?
On strike.
Left wants to salsa.
Right’s doing interpretive grief ballet.
Together?
Choreographed disaster.
Stairs are a hate crime.

The arms?
One is always cold,
the other’s aggressively auditioning
for Worst Supporting Actress
by knocking over every full glass in a room.
Also—accidental waving.
At strangers.
At shadows.
At no one.

My spine?
A casual freelancer.
Available some Tuesdays.
Other times,
it’s on sabbatical in 2012.

The feet?
Never sure where they’re going.
Trip over nothing.
Stubbed on corners we’ve met before.
Grip flip-flops with a desperation
that feels personal.
They work hard.
Just… not smart.

The lungs?
Hostages to hayfever.
Breathing fine until one rogue daisy
launches a full-scale biological assault.
One sneeze,
and it’s Broadway-level drama.
The stomach?
Still just here for snacks.
Emotionally unavailable since 1998.

The knees?
Ruins.
Archaeological sites.
Historic landmarks in the ongoing war
between ambition and gravity.

And the eyes—
see everything,
process nothing.
Occasionally abandon the task entirely
mid-conversation,
zone out,
and then return in a full panic,
blinking Morse code for
“WHAT DID WE JUST AGREE TO?”

This body is not coordinated.
It is cohabitated.
A mismanaged timeshare
run by a rotating board of sleep-deprived interns
and one raccoon with a clipboard.

And yet—
here we are.
Upright.
Ish.

We are doing our best,
but let’s be honest:
we haven’t had quorum in months.