Paper Heart

I open up my paper heart, and write a couple words. Words that turn into sentences into paragraphs into stories. And when I fill up every page of mine, I write words in smaller between my every line and my stories form a book. A book that’s weighed down by ink and flesh and every fresh pulse of blood is another line misunderstood, so I’ll keep it to myself, another book collecting dust on a shelf made of bones, reminding me that no one will ever care to read. Yet still, all the time I want to write… write some more. But I don’t want another chapter. Don’t want a sequel or an epilogue. But there is no more room with all I have written, so please give me an eraser and every line will be smitten, every story now untold and be nothing more than eraser marks and smudged paper. So I sit and I labor, turning pages back to white, making room for me to write whatever I please. I’m doing backwards cursive as the pages disappear. The lines, they disappear. The words, they disappear. And my heart? Well, it’s still here.
It still beats on for the moon and all below, and I still love making angels in the snow and watching wild flowers grow. I still love dancing in the rain, and the truth is I’ll probably never change. I’ll always love the sound of a bird in song, the music that I can’t resist to sing along, and the taste of sweet tea on my lips. I’ll never cease to try new things, and be humbled by crowns with broken kings. I’ll live on to write another word, another line, and turn paragraphs into a book. And maybe someday someone will care to look, to read a page, and highlight the things they like and show me why I was writing in the first place. Maybe they will be inspired to write a story of their own and spread the trend, and in the end the world will see, that all its people big and small, will have a story to call their own. Make believe and memories etched within our bones, maybe the world will see that no one is truly alone, maybe someday when I’m grown I’ll look back and say…. Well, I’m doing okay. Maybe I’ll forgive my family for never understanding, or my mother for being too demanding. Maybe I’ll look back and read their stories from the start, every line and every word written in their paper hearts.