When are you going to realize that

size

does not define beauty?

My body is

a hurricane

that can tear you into

thin strips of paper.

Paper is all that you are.

Scraps. Shreds. A wastebasket product.

You say I do not

take care of my body?

Oh, what you don't know.

I’ve nurtured myself

more than you

have ever nurtured

anything

or anyone

in your whole,

flimsy life.

My temple walls

once trembled

at the sight

or the mere thought

of you.

But not anymore.

Because paper is so lifeless under the

press of my fingertips.

I have stars laced into

the lattice of my skin

that will burn you if you dare

come too close.

You are so flammable.

Paper burns to ash so quickly.

I am unafraid. I feel nothing.

I have become a

fierce warrior.

Little paper-cuts don’t stand a chance

against the jagged edges

of my mighty fortress.

My armor, impenetrable

by the lowly likes of you.

So you can say all you want

about me.

Such pathetic words

from papery lips.

But that only shows more about

you.

Tell me,

how does it feel

to be so cruel?

How do you look at yourself

in the mirror every

mundane morning

and feel proud

of the wastepaper

you are fabricated from?

One day,

your screaming lungs

will deflate

and you will be

all alone.

Do not worry,

Paper Woman.

Transparent. Blank. Rippable.

You will see.

What goes around,

comes around.

You cannot hide inner ugliness.

For size

really doesn’t

define beauty.

And maybe then,

you will say

you’re sorry.

But

only to realize

your paper body has

withered, wilted...

and it is all

too late.