Paper can scar too

paper hair 3.jpgI wish I could write a book about.


The way I feel.

The way I love.

The way I dream.

And all that makes me want to die.

The way I hope.

The way I fall.

The way I battle.

The way I strive.

The way I celebrate.

And the way I smile.

The way I touch.

And all the things I sense.

The way I cry.

The way I hate.

The way I curse.

The way I paint.

The way I taste.

And all the things I do.

The way I smell.

The way I lough.

The way I smoke.

The way I fly.

The way I scream.

And all the things I’ve said.


No matter the size. Or the number of pages. Regardless of the cover.

Written in a lifetime. Black on white. On paper. Somewhere in-between the shelves of the library. Where I exist. And you are sitting on the floor. With messy hair. And thoughtful sight. Looking at me. While folding the ends of the very same book. Creasing. So you could remember what is important. Bending the paper. Until there’s a crack. Something that will never heal. Because paper can scar too.


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