Short Life of a Paper Woman
I was made on a Tuesday. Not born—made. Folded from brown kraft paper by a man named Leo who sat at his workbench in a storefront on Delancey Street and cut me with scissors that had nicks in the blades and left rough edges on everything he touched. I am six inches tall. I have been painted with acrylics—red for the dress, black for the hair, gold for the buttons that are not real. My eyes are...
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