Miniscule Sense of Smallness

smallness;

constricted in a box,
walls too thin to breath
Windows looking out,
no room for mirrors
-Smashed on the floor.
Tiny reflections of
miniscule stature,
ill-volupsciously cursed.
Two small bumps,
curved over rib cages
shallow breathing air,
in and out of lungs
That fit into your hands.
Fingers that curl
around mine,
that crush wih accident
but true ease.
Brittle, frame of mind,
to match the bones
that lay within this
small, box of
constriction
confinement.

I want out.
I want to be free,
free of the ant-feeling
of worthlessness,
of being missed in crowds,
of not fitting,
of DOWN-sizing.
Of altercations.

Free of the mistake
that I am not a woman,
but a little girl still
pubescent.

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