when you push me very far off, to the periphery of my sanity and the cords in my lungs have to pluck themselves to sleep, i hope you realize what i’m becoming. i can’t define it yet, but a boy in morocco once called me withering and i don’t even think he knew what that means. maybe it’s not as wilted of a word as i thought, for it also means devastating, demolishing. they also referred to me as the willowy one. i’m not so concerned with their perceptions though, mostly yours, but your mind seems to have sanded over, barren in your disconcerted way. never have i felt so neglected, so small. you’ve put so much distance between us i couldn’t find you if you let me.

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