Paper Thin

By Kristin Garth

Inside red-curtained bed, you try to lift
a parchment head. Neck crinkles as it yearns
with vellum, veinless arms, then burns; so swift
you hear the tear — a ripping as you learn
you’ve flattened everywhere, while you were
asleep. Too fibrous now to weep, you could
disintegrate, wet, weakened. Frown, demure,
even a risk that you would wrinkle should
he kiss, the wizard who did this, shrunk, turned
you paper thin, between his fingers bend
a crumpled doll, dissected, either spurned/
returned limbs taped to take apart again.
Paper dolls cannot hear their lungless screams,
and that is how you know it was a dream.

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