Pain,

as bright as my neon highlighters

Statements,

bolder than the sound of my voice

Colored every which way

I trace

Over every word

So none feels left out

Because I know

The littlest things have meaning

All the "ifs, ands, or buts"

Accustomed to my vocabulary

These little phrases holding on to the wits end of the message

Struggling to uplift the symbolism

But again,

You glanced over my thoughts

Skimmed the pages

Ignoring the fact 

That the blood from my paper cuts have

already been bleed

You close the book

Wedged it in between one of the broken shelves

Never to be read again