skonen_blades

The scientists are wrong.
The world is flat.
It’s made of paper and the slightest gust can lift our friends right off the page and away.
Like leaves on the sidewalk in the fall.
Our world ignites with alarming ease.
The wrinkles stay.
I feel crumpled and all the well-intended ‘smoothing out’ won’t fix that.
Our arguments turn into origami logic cranes that are beautiful in their complicated order.
My words hang in the air for all to see and nothing can erase them.
I can only look forward or back. It is impossible for me to look out.
I am held and made tissue thin between pages of the interconnected story of our lives.
This world is made weaker when tears fall and soften it.
This world is love letters and hate mail.
I’m looking for instructions on how to
Make a paper airplane.



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