There’s a miniature man in my tweets. Same hair, same eyes as me. Except the hair isn’t receding. And the eyes sparkle like they all do before the world breaks them. Stay down, I say. My tweets are his last hiding place.

His days are numbered.

There’s a miniature man in my tweets. Sometimes, I let him out, around 3 AM. He stares off like you do after a wind surprises the skin of your neck and takes your soul with it. Okay, that’s enough, I say. Deleting the tweet. You fucking idiot, I say, to no one. But perhaps it’s the world I’m speaking to?

There’s a miniature man in my tweets. I don’t want him seen. Most times, though, I forget he’s there. I’m so busy, convincing people I’ve grown up, that I’m successful. His days are numbered.

I know, because the lies I even believe myself.

Once a year, around the holidays, it becomes too much. I crawl in my tweet, cradle my miniature man like my mom used to me. I miss you, I’ll say. Touching my heart, where I once kept him. He’ll sob. Can I come back he’ll ask. But each year it sounds less like a question.

He’s so beautiful. And it’s so sad. Anyone would want to consider.

But I’m not a man who has time to consider.

I never let him back.

Do you?