flatland.

I am a square, lines meeting at rigid angles, trapped in a place where depth is a rumor. Circles glide past me, perfect and whole. They do not ask if I can stretch, if I can curve. Triangles pierce through spaces I cannot reach. Their sharpness cuts, but they never notice the silence left behind. I press myself against invisible walls, my edges straining for a dimension I cannot name. To be seen is to flatten myself further, to fold into something I do not recognize. I wonder— if I could step outside, if I could leave this page, would I find the shape I was meant to be?