I give, I give, I give,
Making origami out of myself,
To morph myself into shapes that don’t fit my contours,
To grow, I cut myself into pieces,
Like paper in a shredder,
Or the paper cut circles from a whole punch,
A flutter of confetti when thrown in the air,
Could be mistaken for snow if you squint enough,
There is no cold that is gifted with this,
Maybe paper cuts,
But only for growth,
Some days I am the lines of a notebook,
Grey sometimes red,
Faint,
But most days, I am the pad of paper,
The sketchbook,
Having been wildly painted on by my insides,
Purging through the hand, my emotions,
Inked so wonderfuly,
Watercolours producing a rainbow,
I am origami,
Always shaping myself into new forms,
Producing art from a paper,
Folded,
Now not in the wrong ways
Not in the way she would strangle me,
I still can breathe through this,
Sometimes deeply, but breathing,
It is getting easier,
There is only up from here,