daily prompt · love · mental health · napowrimo · poem · poetry · recovery

the past does not define me

Slowly unwrapping the gift,

Eyes filled with trepidation,

You see a dirt stained encyclopedia.

The book is called:

How to love a broken girl.

There is no dedication,

The spine worn from careless handling.

Corners ripped off pages,

Ink bleeding from past spillage,

You put the thing aside.

“We’re writing a new book.”

6 thoughts on “the past does not define me

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