but neither could withstand the coldness of her thieving fingers

i write a lot about people tearing apart the world
sometimes i'm afraid it's because i want to

there was once a little girl
who folded paper stars with frail hands
she could not walk
nor could she fly, 
and as such, 
she spilled the little things
from her wide-open palms 

and they ran to the floor, 
skittered along the linoleum, 
lime green and faded violet, 
stark on their scuffed background

soon, her fingers twisted
and tucked the edges in deftly, 
unconscious fidget, 
piles upon piles of scrap paper stars

and one day
the neighbourhood sacred man
came to her, 
laid a hand on her shoulder and told her, 
"You are destroying the heavens, 
Tearing apart the cosmos
As you pull pieces from the galaxy 
And bring them to rest within your feeble self."

for she was not just folding them, 
she was dragging the stars down to her, 
stealing them from the sky with unwitting 
four-pointed creations

so she stopped, 
burned them, 
tiny little things 
tumbling from her open palms 
and bursting into flame

she returned them to their home
and did not dismantle the stars from their place among the clouds
and did not take them down again

but there comes a day
when we all break. 

and the girl, 
no longer little, 
no longer weak, 

threw her hands up at the sky, 
yelled "F-ck you!" 
and skidded trembling hands against her wheelchair, 
fled to the edges of the world, 
pulled paper out of her pocket 

and, with shaking hands, 
she folded a paper sun

furiously, she folded more, 
made tiny stars 
until she could no longer grasp them 
and they fell from her grip

and the world trembled 
and she held her arms out
and the girl absorbed the universe

when she was done, 
there was nothing. 

her bleeding palms soaked into the fabric of time, 
anger-twisted lips dissolving into thin air

just a star-suspended girl 
hanging in the vastness of space, 
blanketed by darkness
and the aftermath of destruction. 

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed