Indent

Blank. I've always loathed blank paper. Each piece gets a fresh start. But I can't.

My body was like a blank canvas, the artist was depression, the brush was 

the blade, the paint was the blood.

You can try to erase words on paper, but the indent will alway be there. 

They don't go away.

To start new, you must throw the old paper away, kind of like us.

We crumple up our live, throwing them away so we can start new somewhere else, 

but the indent will always stay. 

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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