You are very swiftly becoming a two-dimensional keepsake. There used to be a store, and you'd, I don't remember. You can smell the envelope glue of an album, heavy sheets turning the forest that a child has drawn with a crayon. And a plastic coating like that bag you had over your head before she screamed, mother, poked a hole—saved you.
Someone has bitten their fingernails and raked you with them. But you, no, I don't think so. Pristine, you are meant for better things than this, that, anything, really. You'll keep yourself, you think, and it's only later that you stamp your feet, wonder, what the whimsical fuck you got yourself into. A snare—scratch and sniff.
And me? I've all-along forgotten where I put you. I am just now realizing that you're probably behind that shutter, there, under a pile of clothes—loyal to the end.
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