Paper Dolls

I do like to write. Sometimes I can be quite good at it. Or so I think.
I also like to draw. I'm not so good at that.
My best work tends to come out of the panicky scribbles I pen during classes.
My anxiety takes the shape of peacocks, trees and other curly figures.

Today I sat down and tried to make something visually adequate. I probably failed.
But here is a new picture to go with some old words.

Child's Play

They were one.

Selected from a page.

Carefully con  tor t  ed

                Folded

                Along sharp lines

manIPuLated

For the desired effect

Held

Awaiting the progression

A touch.

The stinging caress

Of stainless steel blades

Dissecting  layers

Reshaping and reforming

Now drawn out

Arranged in

lines by

circumstance

Fused hands holding to the whole

They once possessed

Adorned with dabs of colour

Deemed ‘right’

Pinned against a wall

Painted hearts

                Oozing

                                Down

                                          The print

Lonely paper dolls

Finished with

Forgotten

An introduction

I am a girl.
I contain all of the necessary organs and lack the appropriate appendages.
I also like boys. One boy in particular. Not that that's a prerequisite.

I make things.
Sometimes, when I'm able to function properly.
Which probably isn't as often as it ought to be.
But I make things.
They make things better.

I'm terrible with introductions.
When I really try, I can make words beautiful.
Presently I'm fumbling for suitable letters as I worry about this disjointed first impression.

I think I'm special.
I know that I'm probably not.
But I like to think I am.

I need to write more.
I need to write and create and make something out of the nothing that suffocates my bedroom.

Hello.
My name is Paige.
I don't know what I'm doing.
But that might be okay.