We all borrow the light

of others’ stories




whirling


around foolishness
Wearing masks carved
from the features


of the forgotten
We write our pages
Kneel

against the pain and spilled ink
Crumpling ourselves up

on a dark day
Memories perched between the crinkles
the tears
the rips
Our bodies our stories
bound
mended by forgiving souls
We wash our faces in colors
Painted by society’s prison
of beauty

must be thin
must be a zero
Crumpling ourselves up

fold me bend me
make me small and beautiful

We are read
judged
Stubborn fools


always wanting to change

our corners
our surfaces
With our palms
we shade the reflections

Unsatisfied
within
Crunching

cringing
at the face with the eyes
Like a deck of cards


two of a kind










“I fold”