my scraps: dispose of these, responsibly and properly.

Please look, but do not touch.

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Gently admire my spirit with your words, but do not smother my skin with your nervous palms. It is the veil of half-truth that I crave to cover my face with.

My emotions are simply pieces of graphite that, for you, serve a quota for embodying some sense of creativity into your otherwise drab path. At first they appear to be mere scraps for disposal, and then, they transform into something more meaningful and cohesive for your consumption.

You realize, I need to hold on to these.

You understand that those very scraps are what implemented–and then carried–the transformation within your own soul, from birth to decay.

I have become the completed illustration on a piece of paper that is as loose and free as my whimsical heart. And yet, you are the hand that wipes away my dust.

Keep me free, let me thrive. Allow my soul to make art. Do not confine me to the edges of my own canvas, for it is there that I have formed into a work of art, myself.

 

 

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