Show me home in your eyes of fire
while still setting me free
to cross those bridges
I may burn.
Allow what we have to rest
in quiet happiness
of all the unknown ways
we can learn.

Exhale above me with lips
with no selfishness
and an intimacy I can see
without searching.  
Exhaust my inner urges
with your ink and paper
while I soar within
my yearning.

Pen me poetry that cries out
to be the lyrics,
all the pieces of my heart
learn how to sing.
Turn the key to the lock
of beautiful phrases,
draw me a fine portrait with
your word strings.

Becoming an adult is the greatest trick I fell for, happened faster than taking my first step
Never wished life to be unfair to childhood memories
The promises and games I have forgotten some I try to recreate
Out of reach, the paper plane stayed
Each fold looks exactly like the segments of my  heart, enclosing spilled secrets
Hoping to escape on a boat built with chocolate wrap
My favourite snack turned enemy, doctor said I have diabetes
Trapped in between a stormy sea stretched miles apart, scared not to drown in my own tears
Prayers offered during a full moon night  I held on to than friends
Still scribbled on the face of a blue sky are the conversations we had
Talking to the mirror becomes an act I didn't outgrow
Unleashing the beauty of becoming me
The growth and changes in living
Everyone and everything changed form
Our giggles now turned to be a disguised laughter to keep us from crying
With cheeks hiding the stress we encounter on our way to become adults
The pattern is endless
Hoping to play in the rain naked away from the prying eyes of life
Washing off the words burnt on my skin
Left with beautiful scars for becoming an adult
The greatest trick I fell for.

Once upon a time

In class
I was told
To write
A story
It was
"A simple task"
As my teacher put it
It should be easy
But
I did not write
Not a word.
Not a letter.
Nothing.
My teacher glared
And everyone stared
My heart pounded
My fists clenched
My teacher asked
For me to stand
And explain myself
To everyone
(But how do you 'explain yourself?')
So I stood up
And explained myself
To everyone
I said
"That is a piece of paper.
It has a story.
One day
It can be used.
Or abused.
Or created into something new.
It can be used for art
To plan something
To inspire someone
To write something evil on
To write something kind on
It has a story."

The end.

I saw a girl playing alone
many of her toys scattered around
there was only one she bothered to pick up.

A paper kite that was broken
with edges folded and pieces fallen
she tried to fly it but it was for nothing.

I didn't see how long she tried to fly it
but I prayed she won't become crestfallen
when most things in the world seem broken.

Tear, tear, tear.
Spend classes tearing paper into tiny bits.
Why do I do it?
(Tearing until my fingers hurt.)

Count, count, count.
Almost run into people every few minutes.
Why do I do it?
(Count my bones whenever I can.)
(Count the steps on the stairs when I ran.)
(Count the steps I take and how many breaths I draw.)

I am aware that everyone sees me,
counting and tearing and restarting,
and I don't want to stop even though it's not with a degree of panic.

Check, check, check.
Check so many things again and again,
but not the things that are really important.
(Check that everything's not changing or if it is.)

Sometimes, I am a paper girl.
I look in the mirror
To judge my blotches and creases-
I am a pale, thin tissue
That bows to the howling wind
Transparent for anyone who cares enough to look.

If you like pretty pictures, I'm the one for you-
A roll of film scratching laughs
On curious cinema screens
That could run into infinity
Just to fuel your smile.

I soak up your messes willingly:
All the colours that bleed and mix
To form the specks of sadness
In your eyes at 10.p.m
And the grass stains that roll
Down your bare gypsy feet
And the sunflower seeds
That stick to your inky lashes-
These things give an echo of the flavour
I miss.

I am vain
I regularly conjure up poetry on my skin-
Do not give me yours.
I will recite it to my last paper breath
So I can kid myself that paper is power.

I am not the phantom you teach to play piano
Under the helter-skelter moon,
I am far too fragile for that-
My paper cut fingers bend
And bleed light all over the keys.

My hands are a canvas
For anyone's ***** details
For if enough titles are painted on my body then perhaps
I will learn the complex trick
Of gaining depth

And maybe the world will look as full
And real as I read in books
And dance with in music
And maybe my edges will stop being ripped
Or my corners cut
Or my pages burned and tossed aside.

Sometimes, I am this tiny
Vulnerable
Origami creature
And my cream card bones tremble like feathers
A bad caricature of life.

Sometimes I am full of wonder-

But right now, I am this.