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She's a book, with ripped out pages, with smudged ink in her folds , and crossed out sentences.
I desperately want my hand on her spine.
I touch it gingerly, and I can  feel  how
 rigid and strong her spine is. I can feel the cracks in it, and I can tell she's tired from being strong.  My fingertips skim through her pages, and they're soft, so soft and thin and delicate, like petals.
 they're softer than the words scratched on the surface.
Some of the pages are ripped out, some of them have blurry writing, barely legible  that I cannot make out a single word.

As I read through her I start to see, now I can see the reason behind her roughness.
I know that she is hoping, that maybe someday someone will love her as much as she hates herself.

And I want her to know that I love her, so I wrote it in faded pencil on the corner of a page, hoping that a part of her will always know, so she'll always carry it within her.
I try to read between her lines, maybe I 'll understand, maybe then I'll understand how a beautiful person can contain so much hate for themselves.

I want to be enough for her. But every time I read her again I find out something new, I find pain and it intimidates me a little. I find parts that don't make much sense and find desperation.
But I still cradle her like my most precious possession.
And I will always do.

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