This world has made me a paper doll
Easy to hold
Easy to look at
Easy to burn.
I’ve been cut out of the same paper
Used to make my 3.5 billion counterparts
We’re all cut in the same shape:
We have our heads
But no one quite knows what’s in them
Then we have our hands
That are bent to this sort of 45 degree angle
That I think makes us look like we’re welcoming someone
Or just waiting to hold someone’s hand
Then we have the ends of our dresses
Followed by our legs
But I think that’s something the world’s gotten wrong
Because God forbid we show our legs
It’s time to be crumpled.
Crumpled by those who cut us up in the first place
Those to whom we’re just pieces of paper
For them to throw their gum in
And play paper toss with later on.
Those to whom we’re begging to be ripped apart
And shredded by their machines made of ego
Those to whom our only purpose is to be scribbled on
By their pens that may not be working.
Some of us, though, are cut a bit unevenly
We have our edges and uneven sides
We’re a cut a bit out of the lines
And sometimes we’re not just plain white
But then how does the world deal with us, right?
We don’t fit into the molds
Or can’t be folded so easily
It’s quite simple, really
They approach us with their candles
With the flame that seems too cold
And we cannot run from them
Our legs would tear apart
The only way we can move is to be whisked away
By the wind’s mercy.
So we stand there
For the fire to burn through those edges
For the fire to turn white to black
For them to turn us into ash.