You hold out a flower to me and show me its intricacies, its petal, its every seam.
Then you ask if I could live with myself if I squished, because you couldn't,  you say
I tell you most days I already don’t live with myself,
I am just waking up and waiting to fall asleep
Or in bed waiting for the morning,
counting the intricacies of the wall.
I tell you that my head already doesn’t live with me, it lives leagues deeper,
much deeper in the petals of my flower.
And when I show you my back with all the seams,
the places where the stem meets the petals, and they stitch together unwillingly.
I tell you, the world has already smashed me,
It seems to have no problem living with it.