I’ve folded, unfolded,
refolded myself so often
that I’m starting to break
along stressed lines.

Look closely,
I’m now less single page
and more stack of fragments.
I don’t blame the world for that.

I tried to fit everywhere. The result:
I am a bit of frayed news.  A story
forced into a pocket, into different pockets,
too many times.

I never quite learned
that in order to be read
and truly understood,
I had to stay open.

I should have spread myself early
and then stayed spread
and available to others who might have wished
to add their lines to mine.

Now, though?  Here I am, a wad
in a pocket.  A mess held close
out of habit, something that really
ought to be thrown away.