On the inside, a sound echoes through my rib cage
Like hastened, high-pitched thunder
And my chest begins to cave
As my bones crack down the middle and fold in on each other
Every memory, every reminder is a fold or crease or wrinkle –
It seems my heart is paper now
The height of my golden days and the contrast of the dark of night
Is twisting me and my insides
The hand of turmoil and the hand of hope
They disagree – they can’t decide
They fold me into some origami thing
With an attempt at sympathy
The voices around me say
“You’ll be art when you’re finished”
But how could I feel anything like art
When my conflict is folding, and churning, and breaking
bruising creasing wrinkling –
everything it takes to get me there?