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
Who felt like butter spread over too much bread.
A moving mummy.
Preserved too long by an earned wickedness
With something noble yet to do
With opposing forces
Upon my shoulders.
As if in anticipated pain
From the wizened world.