I have mastered the art of making myself small; the years have taught me how to fold myself step by step, edge to edge into pinwheels and paper lilies mindlessly left in infinitesimal space — an instinct — a secret slipping into the unconscious, left beneath the mattress, left behind the doors.
The years — they've taught me how to take my heart out — take it apart and fold it into a thousand paper cranes —
all cooped up in my ribs.
Their wings, decaying with all the wishes I never allowed myself to make.
Their beaks, pecking on the flowers, on the wheels, on my skin: an obsession, a compulsion, a ritual for symmetry,
a constant flipping, a ceaseless folding,
until i am small enough — insignificant enough to attract no attention, to remain unseen, unheard, unnoticed in the room.
And here, in this infinitesimal space I have mastered the art of making myself small.