Paper cut

I am a Paper.

You can color me in hues,

Write anything you wish upon me.

I’ll fold—

In untrained hands, perhaps only seven times;

But in skilled hands, I could blossom, become a boat,

Or even a plane.

I may tear—delicate as I am,

Yet I can cut, too.

My edge can hurt, though it leaves no mark,

Again, because I am fragile.

I can be crumpled, scribbled upon,

Even dirtied—

But remember, I can be reborn.

Only when I burn, I cannot return.

Yet even in ashes, I don’t depart empty-handed.

For in my remains, I can bury memories,

Countless memories.