Veins of Paper

I write my life along the veins of paper.

Ink flows where blood would have gone.

Each line shakes with what remains unsaid.

Each word is a soft act of defiance against the world.

I fold these pages into secret shapes.

Origami memories, untouched by others.

They rest in the corners of my room.

A delicate collection of who I am by myself.

No one reads them, no one touches them.

And perhaps that’s the way they’re meant to stay—

A hidden map I’ve created alone,

A world that exists only for me.