Whenever my teacher
gives me a piece of paper
my hands grab it
to write my name in the corner,
Along the perfect edge.
Whenever I write letters
the pen is making edges
ink spreading them
further away.
When I ask Conner
for a sheet of paper
He rips one out of his notebook.
"Here," he says.
The edges aren't smooth
But they're there
Bumping and squiggling
And they are unique
Pretty, in a way.
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