The Paper Princess

Her mother was poinsettias,
gauzy curtains,
the smell of a cinnamon roll,
backyard greenhouses,
and collared shirts.

Her sister was knitted scarves,
red lipstick stains,
oversized hoodies,
broken polaroids,
and freshly cut grass.

Her daughter was daisy crowns,
floating fairy lights,
fluffy socks,
lavender tea parties,
and melted chocolate.

She was thick coffee,
trees on fire,
mist rising into the sky,
chlorinated pool water,
and popped balloons.

Her skin was cardstock paper,
her brain was a handful of pen nibs,
her bones were shredded notebooks,
her heart was inked and blotted.

She scattered the stars
and painted the sky
and when she was done,
she ripped herself to pieces.