Scribbled all over, pages torn out,
Cover ripped, water damage,
many pages filled with doubt,
another book taken advantage.
Cut up with scissors,
That I had handed you.
Scars showing up like tiny wars
Upon freckled and rosy hues.
‘Thought I’d be condemned,
And sold off to auction,
Perhaps all of this stemmed,
From my spine’s deconstruction.
My story was no longer pretty,
The words covered and rotten,
As I sat on a shelf stared at with pity,
My binding’s stitches would tauten.
I was not saved, instead renewed,
Cover to cover my pages turned,
From prefix to where I would conclude,
I am something new to be learned.
Slowly, the scribbles and shame,
Were faded away by care,
And new confidence was gained,
As my pages were repaired.
I’d found my eraser,
The one who could undo
All the lines wrought by a tracer,
And made me new.
I didn’t need my pages to be removed,
I just felt beautiful once more,
My theories and existence proved
I am a legend of literary lore.