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.