The Page That Holds You My mind clouds over each time I try to change the lens— emotions smudge the margins, blurring what I meant to see. I keep returning to the same worn page, creased by touch, heavy with the story of hurt, of rejection, of being told—without words— you are not enough. How does one get stuck reading the same paragraph of pain, never quite believing the page can be turned, never trusting that the story can be rewritten? This chapter knows my name too well. It whispers abandonment, replays failures I scripted in fear, and calls them truth. I long for validation from the very hands I struggle to release— hands that bruised, hands that taught me to doubt my own worth. I carry missing pages inside me, some torn away, some so faded from repetition they barely exist at all. Still, I read them a million times in my head, afraid that if I stop, I will disappear with them. This page haunts me— a scene from an outdated movie, looped endlessly, forgotten by those who once starred in it, yet etched into my bones. My voice wants to rise, but my lips feel sewn shut, threaded with silence, trained to swallow cries before they can breathe. I keep running the same track, circling pain like a familiar home, never daring the unbeaten path— the one rumored to hold rest, peace, joy, happiness. Instead, I return to the ache, binding my own feet, afraid that being different will cost more than staying wounded. But today, I see it— the page that holds me is outdated and torn, its ink bleeding into places it no longer belongs. So how do I break these chains of missing letters and bruised paper? Today, I begin gently. I lay these words on a new page. I loosen my grip on the one handled and reread day after day. As the ink dries, I learn—slowly, trembling— to turn the page. And with each breath, I step into the pages of life, writing brightness where there was shadow, love where there was lack, light where the story once told me I could not be.