Paper Doll

Sometimes I crumple up like bedsheets
only smelling lavender and three-day-worn sweaters
A few months ago, I knocked the clock off my nightstand
I haven’t picked it up. I’m waiting
for the right time, I think

Pull the sheets over my face, unfurl into
a million copies of myself:
all connected, all disposable, folding
into each other, creased
where connection should be

Sometimes I wonder which copy is the most loveable
Maybe it’s the last one, she’s got nothing
to lose in the water. She knows
the Pacific takes a beating
retreats from the Oregon coast
and I have a body of water left

Some nights I butterfly to Beijing
and the days I sleep underwater. She knows 

to err is human
to drown is survivor
to die is not an option for either

Some days I wait, most of the time
I run. I run, I will, soon, now
already. I’m folded too neatly. Too many
times

“You’re like twenty-two girls in one
and none of them know what they’re running from;
Was it just too far to fall
for a little paper doll?”

Raya Tuffaha ‘23
Swarthmore College