You left me,
a crumpled piece of paper,
folded into edges too sharp to hold,
thrown with the force of a secret you dared not speak.
Missed the trash can.
I lay there,
ink bleeding into the fibers of my being,
a confession spilling out like the wound you refused to tend.
Your words,
torn from the safety of silence,
screamed at me in jagged whispers,
"Too much. Too raw. Too real."
And yet, they were yours.
Did you think
I'd dissolve into the shadow of your shame?
Did you hope the world would turn its eyes away
from what you could not bear to see?
But here I am,
the paper you crumpled,
unfolding,
straightening out my creases,
showing the scars you tried to hide.
I will not be discarded.
I will not be erased.
I will stand, ink-stained and broken,
daring to expose
the truth you could not face.
