Scribbles

She is a handful
of scribbled pages
in the back of a borrowed book

Ruffled and frayed
the places she tore
herself
away

Dramas of her haunting narrative
nothing more
than sepia-stained
memoirs,
crumbled petals
her mother's flora,
old photographs
of smiles long forgotten

She is no stranger
to the stale smell of yesterday,
nor the dimples of fresh parchment
underneath parched fingertips

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