Smallness.

She is so tiny, in the room corner,
Sizing up the dark from her spotlight.
She has tiny feet and tiny wavy hair,
She has a tiny little heart under a puny chest.

We are ever so small, in the most brilliant of ways;
Men turn themselves to boys for love and turn lovers,
Into tiny creatures that cup in the palm of their hands,
And stroke to sleep and wakefulness at their disposal.

She is ever so minute, and breathing so fast,
She recedes back further willing the wall to take her in.
This room is her body; it is empty, and her soul small,
She views the world outside from this spacious cage.

We are ever shrinking when we wake up in the morning,
We slowly cripple into toward ourselves through the day.
As we crawl into bed as almost a small ball of viscous nothing.
Our limbs will grow back with the dawn, our spirits ever minuscule.

What is she to do as a little doll, with wavy hair,
She floats around but is afraid of the black expanse.
Every time she shivers, outside her body convulses,
Every time her body is touched, inside she grows.

Is this smallness we wonder, safer than a giant silhouette?
It is easier to tuck away in diminution: egos, and demands,
To pull back into yourself ever increasing in tense density,
Like the smallest of particles that houses an entire universe.

She adjusts to the shrinkage, couples it with timidity to suit,
She turns into not just a miniature of herself, but to a child.
She turns her head sideways and provokes a sincere naivety,
That this will perhaps minimize the gaping hole, the room itself.

But how infinitesimally minute can we attempt to be,
When nothing goes nowhere, the matter lost: nought.
Then we are slowly threatening ourselves to explode,
Till the fear and the sadness and the anger subside.

She fears the floodgates, yet she chooses withdrawal,
She clings to herself and sobs into her tiny little dress,
She pulls her body into a foetus, becoming smaller still,
She hopes to explode into nothing, and be part of the dark.