I’ve become so #small– I’ve been folded in half enough times bending backwards for you, that I’m only #recognizable if someone were to look very, very close. I’m about the same #size as whatever you’d find in a junk drawer, like an old figurine, a roll of scotch tape, a rabbit’s tail keychain, but I’ve, over time, been shaped to fit #perfectly into the palm of your hand, and have become malleable enough to, with ease, be wrapped tightly around your fingers, and as you tend to grip me with the muscle of your stress, you test my fragility– you’ve crushed me to the point where there’s not much left, and like a #child, all you see is that you might’ve #broken something good, so you misplace me and try to #forget. But later when you’re craving to be consoled, you’ll rummage through your waste bin, dust me off, and say, “sorry, #friend.” and each time you do this to me, I’m supposed to just “let it go.”
'Shapely' (A pome on friendships)
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