Why am I a piece of paper?
I can't write or speak for myself.
Others use me and I take it.
I absorb every word and it becomes truth
because I am the paper,
not the pen.
What comes from me doesn't matter.
Eraser marks get brushed off.
I may have loved what once was a part of me,
but others felt the need to take that away.
I have no say
for I am the piece of paper.
It’s not their hands that are ruined,
their purity is left intact,
but not mine,
because no matter how hard I try,
I will never be pure white again.
The marks remain
from everyone who has touched me.
I let them
because I have no say
because I am the piece of paper.
That’s how I was made.