We were made out of paper,
our past conversations written,
words thrown at us, printed,
that hurt us, remained here.
Non-eraseable. Our past, our words.
It's going to hurt, but we'll heal
with each other's presence.
So can you stop telling me that lie,
of those paper cuts on your arms,
stained blood, on the white bandage.
Then I think to myself, how many times,
you have done this and lied.
How many times, I've played along,
watched yourself, slowly crumple yourself
into a scrunch of paper, of words that hurt.
Tears asorbed by the paper itself, you hide the words.
You think your skin is like paper,
their words were like sandpaper, cutting.
Then I am back, to where you are lying in
the hospital bed, with red and white bandages.
Thinking about how many times you needed someone,
and how many times, I wasn't there.