I always feared permanence.
So why, now, the hurt?
I’ll keep writing with my pencil
In notebooks without lines. Facing erasure.
They could burn,
or get lost,
or get stolen
Like their lacking lines
Which were stolen off the page.
I no longer know where, exactly
I am expected to write.
Given that it will all change tomorrow.
I can only hope that my change will be directed
Towards my self,
That one I’m supposed to be,