Thin

But you're the lose thread on an old sweater. The more I pull the more I realize this, wasting away. And I am too annoyed to ignore you tickling my waste. My hip grows red; This hem, uneven; A symmetry compromised. And I'm too scared too, to unravel you because if I do, and then you're gone, What will be left? It will be so cold And I am already so thin.