Paper Dolls

When I met you you were a paper doll.
Scotch tape stitched together,
rough around your edges,
paper pulp skin and shredder mark scars.

And I was a paper tiger
chasing my tail
and threatening to catch fire
in an effort to better hide my stripes.

We made origami of our limbs and cut ourselves
on the sweetness of lust grown love.
Rent fragile bound hearts from stubborn accordion chests
and paper machéd our wet skin to each others mouths.

Three short years and my how you've grown.
You have become larger than life-
A neon carnival billboard pasted outside my cage bar doors.
The perfect tiger taming temptress
framing the pin up complexion of a young woman's form
in cheesy 70s font: "My Dream Girl."

So can I fold my heart into a paper airplane and send it
sailing into your arms?
Can we stop this game of rock-paper-scissors now
and admit that every dollar I spend
to buy you trinkets and treasures
has been secretly crafted into the shape
of an engagement ring
you will still not say "yes" to without reservation?

I remember when my nose bent to your curls
how you spelled rich of aspen on the wind.
How I had a fleeting moment where I forgot
tigers, even paper ones, do not make good bookmarks.
And I bent under the scratch of your fingernails
as strong as whale bone
creasing my skin.

Let you write love letters in the spaces
between my branding mark scars
and felt the pinch of your spit laced fingers
snuffing out my tail each time I tried to self combust.
For you I learned that some leaps of faith
only leave the sizzle of singe singing on your eyelids
but the light is too bright to close your eyes.

The heat too powerful to keep from roaring
even after it is gone.
That life sometimes seems like a circus
program which is easily swept away when the
paper tents have been packed in for the night.

In the end you threatened to throw yourself into the Atlantic
and float to another island.
Fire was one thing, but salt water another.
I was tired of the sound of paper tearing like whip cracks in the air
Our parting the ache of raw hands after punishing telephone books
for seeming so sturdy.

We were only paper after all.
As I paced the shoreline like a pair of scissors
the last ties between us went slack
and you drifted apart into another form atop the water.

But I remember when we were just two trees
growing side by side in the forest
how I wound my roots into yours
to hold you upright against me
when a creek bed yawned wide around your base.
And our rings grew into each others.

But that was long before
they cut us down
and made us into paper dolls.