You gave me paper feelings.
You stripped and processed into blank sheets my naivety so you could write on them.
You scribble whatever you feel like, whenever you care to, and the ink remains freshly permanent till it seeps uncontrollably once attacked by the storm I tend to brew when you’re about to run out of yet another piece.
When that happens, you just fold it up and scrunch it further into a sphere of puzzled hurt to throw into the heap somewhere over there among the others.
That’s an impressive collection in the corner that I don’t dare look through, because papier-mâché crumbles apart after a while when it’s only glued by tears and I’m not ready to break them yet.
We’d need a proper place to discard those for when I do though.