In The Company of Others by Julia Daly

a pattern emerges: I flatten myself, turn sharp corners—make edges out of elbows, knees, ankles, wrists. Fingers crack with a tap. I fold my head to my chest, chest to my waist, waist to my knees, knees to ankles, and ankles to feet— A collapsing woman, taciturn mouth, gossamer skin stretched over dead eyes searching, and starving for reclusion.