I am,
I am,
I am
what lies between the folds of the bedsheet
that my mother washes every week.

I am a bundle, lost in between each and every
crevice of the sheet.

I grasp onto the loose folds
becoming one with the fresh, lemony scent of the
crisp white sheet.

I cling onto what's left of me.

Crumpled;
but your mother
straightens you out.