we are abandoned
left with sticks made out of pens
and stones that look like paper
we are whole
and utterly broken
we mend our bones with stones
forget about paper

we learn what it means to be incomplete
what flame does to paper
that bones mend, and pens love the company of paper

we rush to collect our inked paper
these blessings stitched, our children will learn by means of our strife, not theirs

we wake up slightly less broken
even so, we write
and when ink runs dry
we write with tears
then with blood
we break our bones for pens
and tear our clothes for paper

the history we live
the labor of our youth
it will be written by us
not you