tired justwrite

Curled edges, starting at the middle of scrolls that turn to dust when you touch them because they've been in the sea for a thousand years, the library pillars hiding in a seaweed forest like buttons that are so small I lose them in my carpet, have to crawl on the floor to find them, and realize how long it's been since I've been shorter than my bed, wondering what's on top of the dresser and imagining things more exciting than a college rejection letter and sixty-seven sticky notes coated in reminders I've already forgotten. I lose myself in an ocean of paper, and then I lose that ocean because there are rocks outside big enough to stand on, white as bones in the shadow-specked sunlight, like something being built into something else without taking away the extra parts, frayed yarn, ends woven in, hidden, knowing your time is up when really only half the world has already dissolved, and the outer half is what's left so it doesn't affect you anyway. You think about outer space and try to imagine something with no end, not realizing you'll never see the edges of yourself, not like everyone else can. In a few days, they'll be too busy staring at their feet to notice much of anything but the sand eroding from the surface and their skin growing darker as shadows finally find their way out. The waves in the distance are silent, petrified by their own power, frozen at their bases and boiling at their crests so you can't touch them without feeling everything at once, the paper piling around you, the notes you've forgotten, all curling at the edges, trying desperately to hide what's inside.