Origami

I am a master of emotional origami.
I can fold myself in on top of myself over
and over again
becoming something new
something unforeseen
something beautiful
something that makes other people stare with wonder and ask,
“How’d she do that with just a bit of paper?”

And I can take the basics, the simple
building block paper,
the flat one-dimensional emotion
and fold it up
to a boat,
a frog,
a crane,
a mountain from a molehill.

I can bend
and twist
into shapes that seem impossible
because I have been trained to hide
in the creases and the darkened folds
so that my true form
stays secret
camouflaged in the wings of a pterodactyl
or the tail of a scorpion.

There are things you will never know
never understand
because I fold them away
and store them for later
building a paper menagerie
a flammable compilation of
delicate infrastructures that do nothing
but hold itself up on itself
supporting the tenths of ounces of weight
on the wrinkles.

I have images I try to bend to shape from nothing
your hand cupping my cheek
my head on your shoulder
your lips seeking mine
my hips aligning with yours
your eyes memorizing my body’s lines
my fingers folded into yours more delicately than the folded
neck of a paper crane

my secrets.

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