There is so much time to be a fool. And yet there are days when I become an accidental mute, long minutes spent squinting at each side of a dull spoon, flipping my reflection, looking at my smile lines and wondering who is most responsible for carving them into my face. I imagine a hammer and chisel-wielding fairy that visits me while I sleep after my good days — when I wasn’t too aware of my breath and maybe received some cheek kisses and ate a few olives.
I enter a stalemate once the questions and comments I pose become word salads. I realize my lack of trajectory halfway through my utterances, and I can’t be sure, but I think I begin to blush. I feel like rotten fruit. I search their eyes for understanding and wait for them to bail me out. It is in these moments I feel most juvenile.
It’s a good thing I love folding so much. But not my own clothing, only other peoples’. I really almost lost my shit the other day but then I remembered I get to fold others’ t-shirts and my heart rate returned to its resting state. I like packaging up belongings like this. I wish I could fold t-shirts into cranes.