Somewhere along the way, I've close to abandoned what of me that used to see a tree and climb it,
get hurt and survive it,
and so somewhere along the way I shrank.
Into myself I fold like paper, delicate like the fortune tellers made on the playground.
Smoke goes in my lungs, and dust comes out.
I used to spit flowers and now I spit fire.
Parts of me are vapor, run your hand through me to change my shape.
I sit, diminish, deflate, and deconstruct until I'm naught but nothing.
Air maybe? To fuel the fire?
Or water to put it out? Is it better to let the ash fly free, let that be my legacy?
Let me grow and let me be.
I'm withering, unfortunately, be back soon maybe?