I am who I am,
And maybe that's not a bad thing.
I'm not a blank piece of paper,
I am stanzas,
Beautifully written words that form poetry.
Paging my body,
Until I'm not blank anymore
I am vulgar, hurtful, hateful words,
Jagged, pointed letters that scoop out my insides and cause scars on my heart.
I am compliments,
Compliments that sat on top of the paper, for too long.
But now they're bleeding through.
They're sinking in, through my pages of skin.
I am so much more than a blank page.
I am a story,
Chapter after chapter,
Page after page.
I am ugly and I am beautiful,
I hate and I love.
Just because a chapter is over,
Doesn't mean the story ends.
You decide when it ends.
You hold the pen,
I hold the pen of my story,
My life,
My book,
My story.