Scribbled all over, pages torn out
cover ripped, water damage
and many pages filled with doubt,
another book taken advantage.

Cut up with scissors
that I had handed you.
Scars showing up like tiny wars
upon freckled and rosy hues.

‘Thought I’d be condemned
and sold off to auction.
Perhaps all of this stemmed
from my spine’s deconstruction.

My story was no longer pretty,
The words covered and rotten,
As I sat on a shelf stared at with pity,
My binding’s stitches would tauten.

I was not saved, instead renewed.
Cover to cover my pages turned
from prefix to where I would conclude.
I am something new to be learned.

Slowly, the scribbles and shame
were faded away by care
and new confidence was gained
as my pages were repaired.

I’d found my eraser
the one who could undo
All the lines wrought by a tracer
and made me new.

I didn’t need my pages to be removed
I just felt beautiful once more.
My theories and existence proved
I am a legend of literary lore.