This great decline. This untellable truth. My body, like a weed your mother made you pull. Never blossoming, never beautiful, always a little out of place. This is the time for easy consumption. No chew, all swallow. There was too much of me. Hard shell. Burned bones. I kept getting stuck in your teeth, like the apology I never got, slicing your gums, making you wince. The tremendous weight of this — of the fire that I burned down to almost nothing because you were afraid of being eaten up.