Paper weighs no more than the tree it was born from; with its roots deep in the protective womb that is earth, it grasps for the insults that fuel its growth. Crumpled, it sways like a cottonweed in a windstorm, crooning for the storm and heat to steal it away. Tender tissue is soft under rough calluses, dissolving when a bead of salted self melts it from the surface through. How does one use oneself? Like a sapling sprouting in a field of ivy, my hand cannot reach the cloud I’ve watched since birth.