You are big. Very big. So big with your girth. Your infinite waistline. Your head that hits the sky. I cannot comprehend you as a whole, just pieces: fingers, knee, shirt sleeve.
I am tiny. Very tiny. So tiny with my shortness. My baby legs. My head skimming undersides of coffee tables. You could put me into your mouth and I could live there.
It comes at me fast. You catch my side with your foot. I fly. I fly up into the sky; past your head, past the roof, past the T in the telephone pole, over the courthouse, over the church steeple. The ground blurs and the sky is in my mouth. My side hurts with broken ribs and a crushed lung, but I ignore the pain because I am flying. Flying! Just like every bird I’ve ever chased!
I land in a deep well and die. My one working lung fills with brackish water. You find me like a kite runner. You call my name. It echoes against the old stones and settles in my dead ears. Your tears rain down, useless. You cannot even try to save me as your size dwarfs the mouth of the well, open and laughing at your loss.
I float upwards. Becoming.
The angels giggle and put me into their pockets. They tie me to their wings.
xTx has been published in Thieves Jargon, Cherry Bleeds, Dogzplot, Zygote, and is upcoming in decomP, Robot Melon and Bull. She lives in Southern California but misses San Francisco. E-mail her at notimetosayit at gmail dot com.