I am a piece of paper.
I have been cut down, and put through a mill.
I have been tossed by the winds, yet tethered to every word written upon me.
Words written in black ink, spelling in all capitals that I'm useless, and unlovable. That I am in the way, and that when I am out of the way I am forgotten.
Words written in blood, saying that I have no reason to go on. I will never be accepted; that I am not enough.
Words written in invisible ink saying that I will never be seen.
My paragraphs are blotted out, crossed through and rearranged by careless editors.
My crisp texture, and white color gives way to muddy boot prints.
I am rife with tears and crinkles at the hands of careless of writers.
I have been cut down, and put through a mill.
The truth is though...
I am a piece of paper.
I have many uses.
I can be your origami, a love note, or an airplane.
I can be an interesting article, or a beautiful story.
There, among the chicken-scratch and scar tissue, I have room to write my own words.
With caret marks I correct every word I
ever let define me.
My story isn't written on me. The changes made to the words written on me are my story.
One thing this piece of paper has learned, is that you should never give people the power to write in
permanent maker what should only be written in pencil.
And you cannot control the whipping wind you whirl in, but you can be a page worth a second look.
We are all worth a revision.
