Cardboard Stories

Fingerprints smear the faded print,

tiny hands long gone, tracing mazes

and games half-finished,

puzzles blurred by morning breath.

Corners peeled like dry skin,

secrets spilled beneath half-gnawed edges,

a patchwork of colors peeling away

like old lies in sunlight.

The stories promised there

never held their weight—

just sugar dust and forgotten hopes

in the crinkle of a cardboard back.

I stare, waiting for distraction

to fill the empty spaces

where silence once settled

and hunger grew louder than light.