Folded Roads

I wrestled the map between cracked fingers—

a crumpled maze of streets

fold lines stubborn like old scars.

Tried to crease it back to how it was,

into a tiny plastic pouch,

but paper refused, like memory

that doesn’t settle in neat folds.

Each ragged edge a small betrayal,

the city’s shape spilled out, uncontained.

And I’m left holding pieces, wondering

where I stopped folding,

where the roads bent away from me.