are like paper.
Coated in lines of scrawling black ink.
The never ending scratches of ink,
against the parchment lining our bodies,
bleed together into shapes and pictures.
We find ourselves defined by them,
bound to them,
Until one day-
we decided to rip them off,
to melt away the persona which blossomed
into our beating hearts.
We tossed those words,
into the thickening flames,
dressed all in white,
we watched them smoldered away.
When oozing gold,
began to gush
we turned ourselves
It wasn't a day that defined the blank parchment,
born from the ashes.
It was a choice,
to become something new.
Despite how deep the ink had stained us,
despite how old the scars had been
etched into our souls.
to let it go,
and accept that-
who we were
is nothing more than who we used to be.
Because a decision,
can set you free.