Sweet smell of new pages, Like drugs to my nose, The books I held dearly, Is what my life holds. The stories written on pages,

With a little imperfection; Won’t hurt. I was strange when I was a child, A nine year old, Who wanted a pet piglet.

Why do I feel this way? Do you feel it? The way I do? I’m trapped. I couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe… Suffocated in this tiny house,

Skins are part of us, Easily marked and scared. Bruises and paper-cuts, For being naughty and reckless. Copper-skinned, white, yellow, bro…

The one that’s been left out, Doesn’t do anything. Not bothering what he’s been told, Slacker, procrastinator, nothing; Just staring out the window,

Best friends, More like sisters I have adored, You meant everything to me, As I have always am to you. I’ve thanked all my lucky stars,