Page by page,
I flip them and fold them,
I find the deep and dark feelings of the author, i see her pain and torture.
Her blood stains the pages and her hard work and sweat rages,
Give me credit, it says,
But still she gets none.
Why?
I dont know the answer to that,
But all i can say is that it breaks her apart and clutches at her heart.
Each line is her reality,
Each chapter a bundle of memories and nostalgia.
If only they were the good kind.
I read on.
The words become more sparse and seem more forced as I get deeper into the tale.
The lot she wrote about smiles and hearty laughs becomes none existant.
There's only room for the looming darkness now,
Only room for the screams and totured cries.
Each character is a dipiction of her.
In the antagonist she sees her younger self and in the protagonist she sees who she could have been.
Who is she now?
Well, she's unsure it seems.
