History tells us that continents were forged out of paper skin,
and paper is the new blood that grew into the old blood that
haunts the memories of my elders.
Paper Skin is fair, like white phantom.
It moves through walls seamlessly, it does not
get obstructed. Instead, it is a forceful wind that holds the
Night Sky in place. But it is so fragile.
It is so fragile, it breaks with the ink of the Night Sky’s
poetry. My blood is dark with the ink of ancestral nights whose shadows
touched the first Paper, and with it turned a pale white.
Paper blood is strong, flowing through the river’s nocturnal continents.
The mysterious Lady Darkness, her brilliant stars are covered by parchment that
is centuries old and centuries weak. I have stood by siblings who
drink the water of such rivers, who’s docility is granted promises
of paper skin.
History remains changed yet similar.
The Paper Skin that haunts me creeps up in my dreams still.
But it is easily torn asunder.
