Burnt Paper

it is a cut-out paper
thin
delicate white
sharp

it is my world
apart from yours

i stay away from
rain

put my paper feet
on wood

as you pretend to be
the woman of
my pen

you touch
but what you touch is just
my paper
me

i have no more flesh
no bone

the years have eaten them
all

it cut-out from a shape
of your desire

i am burnt.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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