If I could fold
you up into an origami creation, you would be a bird. Painted wings and
glued-on eyes, watching the horizon with wind in your heart and your soul
plastered across your feathers. Flighty and headstrong, pressed into a stubborn
sheet of paper, crumpled into a mimic of yourself.
People would
take you into their homes and into their lives, whispering their secrets to you
when they could tell no one else, because they know your crafted beak won't
spill a word. They will set you upon their mantle piece and take you for
granted, understanding that you will always be there, a fixture in their
worlds, beautiful and listening.
Until one day
you turn on them, flying out of their lives as lightly as you flew in, and
suddenly they realize how much they had relied on you. How much space your
color took up, and how little you really cared about their lives.
They would
realize, then, that a paper heart is nothing more than a pretty construct.
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