Who am I? Perhaps, nothing. Sometimes I lie on the floor, other times you gently pick me up with your ink-stained fingers. My pupils often dilate with the darkness inside your caves while you destroy my skin hard. Other times, my eyes cannot stop blinking when somewhere in the corner I open up a casket of your most prized possessions. I see your wounded ego when I move on. It often needs my medicine and that’s my ecstatic pain. Sometimes you crush me hard and other times you burn me when you think you don’t need me.
Yes, I’m just a paper, made of wood, sometimes carelessly lying on the floor, other times kept loose on the table. You scribble hard with your pen and destroy my skin often. Yet, you need me and I stand tall and high in the files and inside the drawers. I treasure your mind, heart, and soul. I’m a precious paper, made of wood. Handle me with care!
Via Daily Prompt: Paper
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