“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. ...