lined, dotted, blank—
either way, words are written in me:
a thin piece of paper.

I carry what people write,
words I have no choice in,
but I hold them anyway,
with quiet glory.

and yet, despite bearing
the massive weight of ink,
vandalized,
I still get crumpled,thrown,
and worst of all—ignored.

perhaps it wasn’t exactly what they wanted to say,
but what went away in that moment.