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Should life rip through me like a piece of paper?

And it will.

So when it does,

Would you find me crumpled into a ball at the bottom of the bin?

Swash me around in your mouth, cover me in spit, and shoot me through a straw?

You could write me like a poem or read me like a great American novel.

Fold me into an airplane, close one eye, and let me fly.

Or you could use me for lists—groceries and errands, to-dos, checks, balances.

Perhaps I’d be a receipt at the bottom of your bag, or a dollar in your pocket, washed and dried.

But I hope you’d jot down all of your hopes and dreams on me.

Light me on fire for the new year or your new age.

I’d burn through the universe, lobby in the Milky Way, and talk to every star.

I’d make sure they all came true—true for you