They called it art the way I could bend without breaking,
how I softened at the slightest pressure,
how I let hands fold me without asking why.
I was paper neither blank, nor full,
penciled in by promises and emotions that always smudged when it rained.
My heart thin but holding on,
I was a page no one read,
only folded,
creased into corners I couldn’t see,
Seemed I was a page,
torn from the story a stranger was living,
twisted,
until I no longer knew my original shape.
Each love came like an instruction manual,
written in languages I didn’t speak,
yet I obeyed,
layer over layer,
hiding bruises in the folds, and calling it transformation.
Some hands were careful
warm palms tracing my edges
like they feared I might tear.
Others.rough, impatient
folded me with stained fingers,
ripped through my lines,
And called it unintentional.
But it hurt all the same.
When wet with tears,
I got curled,
my edges no longer sharp,
just soggy with memory,
my corners fell at the sides like petals.
I tried to unfold once,
to stretch
to get flat and free,
At least for once
but the creases stayed
Like ghosts of every version I had ever been,
every form of art I’ve been shaped into.
My pain never come with sounds
just silence that echoed through my thinnest parts.
I had to learn that even pain can be graceful, if you fold it right.
In the end,
I laid myself down,
creased, torn, exhausted but folded
In tht moment,
I realized
I was made to be art
Not outlined like paper.
Reading this while listening to ORIGAMI by Sienna😌
This one spoke to my heart. Thank you for sharing.