HOME | DD

Description
Dear Hero™

I am the paper, you are the pen. But you already knew that, didn't you?
You stain me. You poke holes in me.
Write or walk, your traces are everywhere.
I try to use white-out to cover my feelings and your words.
But you keep coming back, writing in my face.
"Go away," I want to say. "Stain someone else."
But I can't, I want you to write on me.
Tell me you love me and need me.
For without me, there is no you. And without you, there is no me.
Right?
Pencils try to tell me otherwise, but they never mean what they say.
And markers have such a colourful and sour language.
But you mean what you say, and I can't ignore the words.
Words sloppily thrown on me.
Then you leave.
Tossed. Gone. No intent to return and apologize.
But that's okay, you see? There's more pens in the desk drawer.
It doesn't matter that I admired you.
Maybe I'll find a pen who doesn't write in blood.
It doesn't matter that I looked up to you, no.
Maybe that new pen won't stab holes in me.
It doesn't even matter that I loved you.
Maybe the new pen will write in soft cursive instead of all harsh capitals.
No one could take your place, no matter how much I try and search.
The only thing that can take your words from me are tears.
I never knew paper could cry so much.
Yours,
FiveStar™

Description
Dear Hero™

I am the paper, you are the pen. But you already knew that, didn't you?
You stain me. You poke holes in me.
Write or walk, your traces are everywhere.
I try to use white-out to cover my feelings and your words.
But you keep coming back, writing in my face.
"Go away," I want to say. "Stain someone else."
But I can't, I want you to write on me.
Tell me you love me and need me.
For without me, there is no you. And without you, there is no me.
Right?
Pencils try to tell me otherwise, but they never mean what they say.
And markers have such a colourful and sour language.
But you mean what you say, and I can't ignore the words.
Words sloppily thrown on me.
Then you leave.
Tossed. Gone. No intent to return and apologize.
But that's okay, you see? There's more pens in the desk drawer.
It doesn't matter that I admired you.
Maybe I'll find a pen who doesn't write in blood.
It doesn't matter that I looked up to you, no.
Maybe that new pen won't stab holes in me.
It doesn't even matter that I loved you.
Maybe the new pen will write in soft cursive instead of all harsh capitals.
No one could take your place, no matter how much I try and search.
The only thing that can take your words from me are tears.
I never knew paper could cry so much.
Yours,
FiveStar™