Unfold Me, Carefully

Unfold Me, Carefully

I have been paper—

creased into swans and ships,

a pocket map to places

I never meant to go.

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Edges remember instructions

long after the hands are gone.

Even at rest, I hold a shape

I learned to keep for safety.

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If you must open me,

start at the square of breath

beneath the collarbone.

There’s a tab there—

Pull gently until the day gets wider.

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Some folds hide weather:

Rains, I couldn’t stop,

Sun, I didn’t think I deserved.

Others are just habit—

corners tucked because that’s what corners do.

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I am older than this template.

I am more than a neat animal

Your patience makes.

Still-thank you for your patience.

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Your fingers speak in cotton.

They warm the creases,

coax angles back to meadow.

I feel the paper forgetting its mask,

fibers loosening into yes.

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Here is the line I never crossed.

Here is the valley where

my voice learned to echo.

Here—light pooled for years,

waiting for a place to spill.

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When I’m flat again,

Don’t call me ruined.

Call me page:

Room for sky, for letters, for lunchbox stars.

Call me field:

Space enough to lie down without folding.

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If someday I choose a new shape,

let it be mine—

a house that breathes,

a kite that knows its string,

a swan that lands when it’s ready.

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For now, keep the edges kind.

Turn me slowly.

Read what opens.

And if you write your name,

write it soft—

So it can fly with me.