Days, a week, or two weeks passed before I discerned I was dying
and the things which were to be my eyes shriveled up like pricked balloons.
It is always night in here. I cannot know if it is you, though something
is wringing out my heart (what was to be my heart) my tongue my skin
is being ground to a pulp. There was not enough time to rehearse a graceful pose
before I was wedged against the wall. I am splayed like a weather vane.
Your head is enormous. When did it happen that I am no bigger than your footprint?
I am becoming a scrap of parchment on which is scrawled my flattened waxy face.
Unfold me. You will find a tiny skeleton stirred into the paper. I am a letter
to you, and it says if you held me up to the wind I would flutter away. At times
in the future you will feel that something has been lost but you will not remember
what it is. No one understands why this is happening. Look at me, you know me
better than anyone. I am not angry.
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