I want to live my life under a magnifying glass, to burn away the excess. Peel layers of skin underneath the summer sun. If I could only suck on sugar cane and drink lime colored cocktails, perhaps then I could waif away until I would be so small as to build myself a castle to stow away in.

One day she would find me painted into a corner, poised against a wall, and she would ask, "Why ever so still?"

"I feel like I belong in a photograph."

She would pull out boxes of black and whites from underneath the bed frame, show them to me in droves, pointing at all of my captured features--the candids, the poses, the backgrounds.

But I felt in those, those are memories. I feel like a shot without intent.

She would scold me, "You should eat something, you look too thin.

And I would think--the less of me, the less to break.