my paper house

In my paper house,
The walls are paper,
And the floor is covered in seas of paper,
The walls are printed,
The ceiling;
Words,
Paper scratches agains paper,
Like two pieces of sand paper grating against each other.
As I walk across the floor,
The papers jut out,
Their edges razor sharp.
And my words,
The letters I wrote,
Cut seams of red into my legs as I brush through the pile,
The words rain down and slice through my skin,
Cutting and pinching the soft pink surface left vulnerable.
Down to the bone.
The edges curl and droop in soggy red as the ceiling sags.
The paper house bleeds out in rivers of blood and ink,
And droops into itself;
Colapsing
Into a dripping
Red
Ball of trash.