Paper

What am I to you,

I wonder–

Am I a lump of clay, a blank canvas, a passive

Mirror?

You take

Your staff, your spear,

Of plastic, of wood, of chilled metal–

Your saber of steel and ink.

You carve your initials, your tears of salt

And blood, and you let them,

You force them to

Mingle with my own.

I feel your wounds in mine,

I bear them with a tenacity you will never know,

Never feel, never own.

My scars are a brand,

And I must wear them with a grudging pride, for

My birth and my death are by your hand,

By your soul and at your

Command.

Do not pretend

You understand–

I know you are lying,

Just as I know my own self, for in my sleep I hear:

Scratch ... scratch ...

An endless and torturous ringing.