Forget me. Just do. Nothing special, only encasing in me, 

in another me,

in another me.

Fingers clutching the little I have of me, trying not to let it spill on the floor. There are little droplets that topple over and I wipe them with my dirty foot. My toenails, neon green look fluorescent under the lighting, there is a trail of me going from my shirt to the corner of my big toe, it has dried up into a crusty stiffage.

Three smears, one, two, three smears of brown skin on the ground, barely visible, but I notice. They are there reminding me that I shouldn't give myself, no one wants the excess load, no one wants a melted cone, deformed to the bit. Anyways it's been tainted, a lick on the left side, saliva sticking to my elbow.

Figuring into blobs. Keep it in, keep it in, arms holding it to the chest, struggling with the overbearing weight of slosh. Any twitching, sprout or hint of moving will collapse into a gorging mess that no one will clean up. Some will pass by and deliberately go around the murky puddle—not desiring the sticky stuff (an ear, a knee, a silly flimsy heart) on the bottom of their shoe. They will have to go find the nearest patch of grass and scrape it off. Scraaape, scraaaape, until it is nothing but a grayish smudge.

Melting, melting. Wicked witch of the north, east, west and south. Forget me, just do.