you covered your deceiving sentences in pretty paper, letting the gold flecks blind the careful, truth-seeking eye. each fold you made masked the truth even further; the edges too thick to tear through.
you made lying an art. perfecting your trickery with each crease; simulating the false concern on your brow.
how many steps did you take to hide your intentions or your secrets? how many incisions did you make on your victims? relationships are supposed to be beautiful demonstrations of life; not crumpled up pieces of false hope & fake actions, curated to bend at your command.
i tried to keep track of what moves you made so that i could make sure you wouldn’t repeat them on me. but your nimble, paper cut fingers moved too fast, & before i knew it, i was trapped in a suffocating paper thin, paper-slicing maze.
if only i had the scissors to cut myself out of this pointy mess. but once i unfolded one lie, the rest unraveled before me til there was just one piece of paper with the marks showing where i could have caught you out.
look at all those little lies folded up into something so intricate that looked treacherously beautiful from the outside, but was simple & sinister from the start.
you contorted me into myself, creating an aesthetic crane. but i learnt to fly out of my cage, & out of your clasp. i won’t be pleated into an origami opus for you to display & deride.
i am not your paper to fold or decorate.
not aimed at all. just caught inspiration from origami and though that lies unfold just like it; when you discover one, the rest of them unfold.
Written in Lai Poetry form. The lai is another French form. It’s a nine-line poem or stanza that uses an “a” and “b” rhyme following this pattern: aabaabaab. The lines with an “a” rhyme use 5 syllables; the “b” rhyme lines have 2 syllables. It feels kind of like organized skeletonic verse.
i still can’t say your name. not because, the sound makes me sad, but rather because the way the letters sit on my tongue and, the way the syllables leave my lips simply don’t feel as comfortable as they used to. i wonder if you can’t hear my name. the way you told me to add an accent to the end. the way I made it sound like the ending to a love note, a love note my diction could fold into a paper crane that could fly to your heart. i remember how you recorded me saying my own name, because, you loved the way the vowels dripped off my lips one by one, the way I could curl the four letter nickname so gently it sounded like a cursive word, wrapped and tucked behind your ear. i hope you can’t listen to those recordings, because I can’t listen to my favorite songs. i hope one day your mouth opens to say her name and closes knowing it said my own, because any time I type another man’s name on my phone, it somehow autocorrects to yours. i hope my paper crane name has made a nest in the back of your mind, laying eggs that will hatch whenever you touch her, so when you hold her hand, the little crane in your skull says that only word it knows infinitely well: táti.