It sits, quite unobtrusively, on my corkboard, on my wall, in my room, somewhere in a vast building with a thousand moving parts. A small red sticker which, although was probably created for reasons other than why I hold it so close to my heart, I hold close to my heart nonetheless.

FRAGILE, it proclaims, in a loud boxy font that, honestly, relays anything but that sentiment. Below, in smaller, yet equally assertive print, HANDLE WITH CARE, reveals the treatment the sticker demands.

FRAGILE

HANDLE WITH CARE

 A long and jarring rip runs through the height of the sticker, causing it to slowly crumble from the inside. On occasion, the left half of the bright red label falls off the corkboard, gently landing on my desk or under my chair. Although it is a tedious task resticking the paper onto the board and hoping it stays fixed for a little longer than it did last time, I resonate with this unassuming notice nonetheless.

It sits, quite unobtrusively, on my corkboard, on my wall, in my room, somewhere in a vast building with a thousand moving parts. And yet, I feel like it was written with me in mind.

Yes, its original intent was to warn handlers of the breakability of the object it stuck to—some old, forgotten gift I had given some old, forgotten friend. And yet, the label stuck with me.

FRAGILE

HANDLE WITH CARE

I too, wish to demand of the world.

FRAGILE

HANDLE WITH CARE

I too, am peeling from inside out.

FRAGILE

HANDLE WITH CARE

I too, will keep clinging to any last bit of hope I have left, even after collapsing a hundred times over.

FRAGILE

HANDLE WITH CARE