Time travel, a bookmark, the angel gabriel.
‘Angel Gabriel, how did I die?’
‘Your mother was Hera, your father, Zeus.’
‘So they made me die?’
‘It’s so dark here.’
‘Use the light from my wings, follow me to the Underworld.’
I've often found myself contorting,
squeezing into other peoples' boxes.
Maybe it's because I'm small.
I can fit into places easily.
But my stomach hangs over my legs,
petruding over the line.
Stuffing never helps.
Hiding can often reveal more than
So I stopped contorting.