never more than seven

We are paper people, made from mashed up trees. Once we reached for the sky, but now we lie side by side and flattened. We carry truths that could make the world turn in reverse. We mention that you need to buy some milk. We fold to keep our secrets within. Or live bold lives with letters scarred across our skins, bearing messages of love or hate or everything in between. We fold into flightless cranes or lotus flowers that never see the sun. We are kept close at hand. To refer, remember, remind. Rewind. We are crumpled and flung, torn and burned. We are left in the rain, to grow thin and indistinct - edging close to pulpy surrender.