scissor cuts and pencil marks
crumple, flatten, write, cut
take out of your pocket before you wash
more than hearts, entire wholes
grind with water, spread on screens, let it dry and repeat
the deep breaths that sound like open books in a breeze
inhuman dolls, things like people
two-dimensional
we fold ourselves small
compact the colors of those ***** feelings
get lost in corners and swept under chairs
sleep between the covers of a good book
written out theories of thaumaturgy and melanokinesis
painted, torn and taped and writ three times over
tattooed trees, spineless, boneless
the kind of kid to crumple at a stiff breeze
sideways invisible
diving into the creaking cracks in the floorboard
the kind of adult to only give tiny, stinging cuts