Flanders Fields

Sometimes I would like to be tiny, like the head of a pin. I would fold self over myself, collapsing little by little until I’m the size of an insect you can easily flick off your skin with the help of a fingertip. That way the past I carry and the promises I await would shatter into pieces. Because what is constructed with incorporeal matter is fragile and will break before it bends. I would be tiny and empty, and could fly away on a gust of wind like a poppy seed.