There was a paper girl who left home to find herself in the city of lights;
They’d told her that today and tomorrow would all be the same
And she would never find love because she had no direction.
So she stole Sharpies from the couple next door—their words and kisses
Stained in the ink, giving it that heartbreaking edge—
And she left for the city where even bent and broken girls like herself
Could feel beautiful (or so she’d heard).

A stone twisted in her lung as the neon lights bled and disfigured her,
But it felt so good to feel.
She felt hands and eyes and stars upon her, as she scrawled words
Against the walls like alcohol poetry—the kind that is never beautiful—
Smoke wrapped ‘round her body like a
Silken sarong threaded from spiders’ webs; she smiled slow like a sunset.

A few hours later her legs were heavy and her clothes weren’t so clean;
Her lips had been stained with red from a stranger and her
Eyes were glazed like pieces of broken glass.
She stumbled against a wall where she saw her words bled against the paint,
And below were words of a stranger’s: You look so beautiful tonight.
She stretched her back and her neck as if she were the ivy growing on the wall
And smiled drunkenly to herself; paper girls aren’t beautiful—paper girls were
Supposed to be ripped to shreds, Ripped to shreds.

Something glimmered above his eye as he walked to her.
He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, just like
Every other boy she met, (oh, what a pity) but he seemed to enjoy it.
He kneeled beside her, and took the Sharpie from her fingers—
The ink licked her skin and left behind spirals of kisses and things he
Never said; things like I want your name on my lips,
But she crumbled when he touched her—“I’m a paper girl, I’m a paper girl,”
So he just let his fingers trace her fingers.

He never said a thing as he sat down beside her,
But they held the moon between their fingers and made bracelets from stars.
He didn’t wince when he traced her paper-cut edges,
And she closed her eyes slow,
Butterflies brushing against the insides of her stomach.

“Do you want to get out of here?” he asked softly;
his words were beautiful like a new tomorrow.
But she just stared, hope and pain graffitied across her face.
“I will show you how to live,” he whispered.
He took her hand and led her away; away from the neon lights
And the words she’d bled and the bottles she’d broken.
She followed him, even if she might find herself shredded to pieces
The next day, because for once she felt like she was alive.