****** folds of paper,
Bind with a sewing needle,
And of course, it needed a cover page-
A drawing in crayon,
Because the little child in me found joy in drawing with crayons.
Most of the pages were little glimpses of life.
As the pages passed, drawings appeared-
Drawings of what I thought I looked like,
-A strange way to capture self-hate,
Some pages carried words that would-
Make you feel like they were pressing down on your chest,
And you couldn’t really breathe.
-Suffocating
If I read them out loud, I would burst.
Some pages had tissues speckled with blood-
Like little red polka dots.
They were words I couldn’t express on paper.
I put them in a little box,
The world will never see it.
It wasn’t meant to be published.