It’s the rebel in me. And the coward. Both don’t go together, I know. That’s why I look like a ripped page torn from a book. I don’t belong here or there. Not in the book nor alone.
I’m an awkward page in the book, but on my own I’m not a complete page. The writing on it is unclear, disconnected, and without contexts.
Let me know a good writer who can turn this page into a readable piece, a moving prose, a soaring poem, or even just a banal essay.
I need to live. Really live.