I crumple inward
Like the plastic bottle you suck the air from
Until your tongue hurts a little.
Like the Witch-King slain by Eowyn.
Like a fruit left out and filmed in time lapse.
Like the house in Carrie.
As if a vacuum hose were forcibly attached.

Thin and stretched
Like Baggins
Who felt like butter spread over too much bread.

A moving mummy.
A Sméagol
Preserved too long by an earned wickedness
With something noble yet to do
By accident.

Holding conversations
With opposing forces
Upon my shoulders.

Shrinking inward
As if in anticipated pain
From the wizened world.

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