runaway

What if someone made a paper-mâché mould of me, as if one of those projects little children are forced to ask their parents to help them create for their class, what if someone touched me with their fingers and spread out sheets and sheets of newspapers all over my body and lathered me with glue, what if I became the balloon and took a pin to my head (what a lovely phrase, a pin to my head — like a gun to my head) and I collapsed inside, but no one would know because they cannot see? What if someone dropped the plaster of me and I broke, but nothing was inside?