“The Paper Bag”

 

By Adena M’lynn

I wore a paper bag

like a second skin—

not for fashion,

but for forgetting.

Two holes cut

just wide enough

to see the world

but never let it see me.

They said,

“Look in the mirror,

tell me what you see.”

But I couldn’t bear

to meet the eyes

of a face I was told

was too much,

too broken,

too wrong.

The bag whispered safety.

It muted the mirror’s judgment,

blurred the lines

between what I was

and what they made me believe.

It said,

Shut-up,

You’re not her.

You’re not here.

You’re not real.

I learned to live through slits—

narrow truths,

fragmented days,

a life filtered through

what I thought they could handle.

The paper absorbed my silence,

soaked up the tears

that never dared to fall in public,

and crinkled with every movement—

a rustling reminder

that even hiding makes noise.

Sometimes, I dream

of setting that bag on fire.

Of letting the smoke curl upward

like a prayer,

Make me whole—

not perfect,

just pieced back together

with gentleness,

not glue made of guilt.

Make me visible—

not spotlighted,

just seen, like I am real.

Make me mine—

not theirs,

not what they said I had to be

to be loved or allowed to stay.

Some see me

as fragments,

as the echo of a scream

that never finished.

Some see the paper bag

and call it strange,

not knowing it was armor

before it was shame.

Some only see

what’s missing.

But I—

I’m trying to see

what’s still here.

What’s still

me. Can you 

see me? Anyone?