At the foot of the bed,
curled into a tight ball,
attempting to take up the smallest amount of space possible,
is not my cat, for he is dead,
is not my dog, for she is too large,
and is not a child, for I am one no longer.
If I become small again,
I think,
then so must my problems,
my fears,
my desires,
my emotions.
If I just pull myself in tighter,
I think,
then flesh will collapse into t-shirt and blue jeans and I will be hidden.
If I can just find a way,
I think,
I know that I can pull myself
into myself
and I won't have to face you
or my problems
or my feelings
or the world
ever, ever again.
