It's not 'Just' a Sheet of Paper

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How could she? How could she say that to me? Did she forget all the things I do for her, how could she? I protected her…
My brown eyes turn liquidy and auburn, tears gushing like the Niagara Falls. My eyes like an over flowed canister, my cheeks hot and pink. My teeth biting hard on my lip, preventing me from breaking down and bawling. I reach for a piece of paper that has doodles of all different size hearts and phone numbers randomly scattered. I turnit upside down to the unwritten page and I begin to press my blue ink hard on the paper almost tearing it.

“She hates me” I write “She hates me…she does not think before she speaks…that girl…I just…I just asked for help…oh god…she hate me.”
My pen going ballistic on what used to be a white dry piece of paper, now turned to a smudgy blue. Barely able to see the paper in front of me, yet I am so furious I continue to vent about my emotions letting them ooze out without holding back at all. The poor paper getting yelled at for something it does not deserve at all, the person who deserves it is her…her! My handwriting completely out of proportion but that piece of paper was just accepting it without question. It is staring straight at me waiting for more, knowing that I am not done. It sits there holding all the secrets I have told it, soaking in all the words making sense of it and placing it right back into my mind, reminding me of my own emotions. The black lines that had blindly guided me now seem to disappear in front of my eyes, losing its color and rigidity…its perfection. Even though I feel like I have been writing for hours, that piece of paper always seems to be giving me more and more lines for me to just keep venting until I felt it was enough. So I took that advantage and just kept going.
“ I asked her to help me”, I wrote. “ But her friends are more important than me…aren’t they? I am older…she should be a little nicer. “ The paper sacrificing itself just for me, it now looks worn and slightly crumpled with scattered tear stains. I ask my little sister to help me and she was so…so…into her friends. Then she said she hates me…yeah she said she hates me. Her friends were right there…right there looking straight at me. I knew they thought that what she did was wrong…so why didn’t they stop her? Why did they not say something? She can’t say that…how could she? The paper still feeding me lines for me to just let loose and keep going. Its edges are ripped and jagged, its touch crinkled. My fingers clutching my bed sheet and I was screaming at the top of my lungs. I could feel all of this pent-up anger boiling my blood and heating my insides. I threw my pen down and stared at the vulnerable piece of paper. I suddenly realized that none of what I had been writing made any sense. The words were jumbled together as if they had been just been spit out with vengeance. I just felt so much better though. The paper had just soaked in the letters I threw at it not having the heart to tell me I was wrong.





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