you are paper,
let yourself be crumpled,
and then tell me stories
about your creases, your scars;
memories living in jars
tell me how it hurt
to be molded impetuously
because you still feel pain
when your wrinkles look like veins,
fragile streaks of vulnerability
flowing within you,
all over you,
and i will tell you
that i could not care less
if you are a mess of crooked roads;
if you are no longer like the others
devoid of folds
because these folds define you,
and the others do not crumple
in the same way as you do
you are paper,
skinned from nature
let yourself be written,
and then tell me stories
about yourself, your tales
without ever having to use a pen
i am aware that the title seems illogical but i thought it would be a good one to catch your eye and warm your heart.