We used to go together like pen and paper.
But you ran out of ink, and ripped me apart.
I was pure and always present, yet I saw your care never
For all you wanted was to darken me to my heart.

And you succeeded. I was a shadow.
I crumpled myself up, and thought of hurting myself,
Scatter myself to the winds, burn me so.
But there was something you did not think of.

I am not alone. I never was, really.
As long as others will read me,
As long as they will understand my story,
I’ll have no need for your black calligraphy.

Now, I see the difference between you and me.
I never have ran out of ink, of love, of care.
On another parchment I shall write my story.
One that will not reject my art, my flare.

Care overwrote all the words you inscribed into me.