Where I am, there’s paper – it’s the sole concession

I’m left to express who I am in depression

With my forcibly bound voice and my inkless hands.

What’s paper worth without a tale?

When all opportunities fail

I sit and fold origami.

Expecting that I’ll go unheard

I build nests, assign each a bird

Lacking words, I craft safe spaces.

But in my birdies, there’s a song

That draws to me a gleeful throng

Whom I show how to flap their wings.

I was taught to fear bearing fruit

Then nearly cut down at the root

Because I did not, yield, produce.

It’s like trees are deemed scrap paper if they can’t feed

As if being house to birds and the nests they need

Isn’t in and of itself an act of greatness.