godzilla.

they feel indescribably small, crunched and cramped into claustrophobic rooms labeled ‘this’ or ‘that’, but also like godzilla stomping his way through tokyo on a saturday night while all the superheroes are on vacation. they keep twisting and turning in these rooms, trying on different shirts to see which one fits but finding that none of them fit very well at all. they work hard on shrinking, to see if they can fit better in at least one room, in at least one shirt.

they stand, confused, outside the rooms and pound their chest, scrunching up all their worn out shirts in their fist. they shudder with each claustrophobic breath and silently protest against the weight and the truth. no matter how small they become, no matter how well they can squeeze in a room, or how the shirts fit, they will never find a room and shirts of their own unless they let godzilla tear down the city before attempting to rebuild.