To the author who writes my story
Why is the story so dark
Why is this story so hard to turn the page
Each page is harder to turn than the last
To the author who writes my story
You gave me chapters i wasn’t ready for
Lessons wrapped in pain like a christmas present
Perfectly set under the tree, but only for so long
Ready to be torn apart by every person the next day
You write plot twists without warning
Ink spilling before I can brace for it
You let the margins fill with silence
And call it “character development”
I had to learn how to smile through paper cuts
Paper cuts that shredded my skin into nothing
Cuts that i not only gave myself just to feel something other than my heart break
But emotional cuts that those around me dug into my soul
To the author that writes my story
Why must the reader get bored and drop me without reading the first chapter
Why must my cover be ugly and torn, ripped to shreds
Why must the blurb on the back page be lifeless and boring
To the point not even i wish to continue reading MY own story
The book in which each page turn weighs down my hand
In which it’s just easier to read the same page rather than turn it again
The book in which there seems to be no end
In which every chapter grows darker than the last
You underline my failures in bold
Highlight the nights i couldn’t breathe
Annotate my tears like they’re important themes
As if pain is the only thing worth studying
Tell me, author
Why must growth feel like grief
Why must healing sting like salt
Why does every lesson arrive
Wearing the costume of loss
You sit somewhere above the pages
Watching me try to make sense of the ink
Watching me trace sentences
That were never written in my handwriting
The ink that not only flows on the pages but down my arm
The ink that is now red, thick and hot, and a pen that is shown as a blade
A pen, dull and rusted yet still gets the job done
A pen that has grown tired of being used
I grab a new pen and try to re-write my story
I fight everyday, change every ending
Every chapter and every line
Every page flip and every period
Yet the pen slips from my fingers
Not because the story is over
But because I am too tired to hold it
Because I admit that the author has won
The pages keep turning anyway
Wind doesn’t ask permission
It just moves what’s already fragile
My story already written in stone
I pray to my author for my story to re-write
I wait for you to answer
But the margins stay empty
No edits
No rewrites
No mercy in the next draft
Just ink drying
On sentences I never chose
In a book still being written
Without my consent
The spine begins to crack
From being opened to the same wounds
The pages curl at the corners
Damp with things I never said aloud
Maybe I was never the main character
Just a footnote in the page
Explaining someone else’s lesson
A paragraph crossed out
Before it had the chance
To mean anything
The ink keeps running
But the words don’t sound like me anymore
And somewhere between drafts
You stopped calling me by my name
Now I am just
“The tragedy on page”
Typed neatly in the outline
Of a story that never asked
If I wanted to stay
The ink keeps running
But the words don’t sound like me anymore
And when the final page turns
There will be no quote
No moral
Just blank space
Where I was supposed to be