22 September 2012
I’m crushed between your palms. My essence is that of a piece of paper creased and re-creased a thousand times during different moods. Ripped edges from the days of nervous twitches. Frayed rims from the abuse. Ink blotches from aggravated assaults on my own mind. Scribbled words used to reclaim memories lost in time.
You picked me up from the desk. You uncreased me and read it all. Everything. You see everything now. And I know you wonder if it is too late to turn back. To act like we never existed. But, you can’t. I’d hope you would be attached to me like I am attached to you.
You slipped me in your pocket after you refolded me seam to seam. And every time you think of me I see you put your hand to rub a corner of my paper. My edge hangs out over the lip of your jean pocket. It’s a little worn down now, you’ve worn me down a little, in a good way. The signs of love from when you re-read me are evident. I am not just a story to you anymore. I am a person. I am finally me.
In your eyes I am beautiful with my creases and my ink blots, with my rips and my tears.
I Am Your Folded Paper... • Opuss № I