keeps me confined.
my life spelled out on my pale paper insides,
bleeding ink trickling D every crevice
(you could say it’s my blood
or maybe T )
I am opened to interpretation.
how many fingertips have prodded me to open?
I am a thousand pages of different ages
with a heart strewn out over time in letters
I exist only in the palms of your hands,
revealing my secrets to you.