Ink and Paper
Ink and paper,
A young boy,
A foolish little girl.
This became the beginning of my writing.
“Write what you want,” he says to me.
I do, because he knows best.
I write everything I want.
I write worries,
I write sadness,
I write fear,
I write recovery,
I write my own lovely fantasies,
I write anger,
I write sadness and fear again.
Later I will write recovery.
He takes my ink and paper,
Crumples it, tears it,
Throws it to the flames.
I let him do so, because he knows best.
He says it’s good to forget.
I never loved him I think,
Though I suppose he really does know best.
He is part of me now.
I carry his secrets, I carry memories.
I carry bottles of feelings that he gave me, almost as gifts.
Some have labels:
Curiosity, need, acceptance,
Some do not.
I am him as much as I am me.
As much as I am the grass, trees, wind, and water.
And I know I am only waiting for him to find me again.
I believe that someone else will come along, and hand me ink and paper.
“Write what you want,” she’ll say to me.
And I’ll write everything I want.
And I’ll write things I don’t want, but they will need to be said.
But to start, I will write recovery.
She will take my ink and paper,
Fold the corners of papers she wants to remember,
And hold it close to her.
My ink and paper will become part of her, and hers will become part of me.
Until I find her, I will wait.