SECOND DRAFT

I ripped up my portfolio in a fit of self-disgust, I did it, I had to, its pages made me sick. It was a reckless desperate deed, there were blood stains on the spine, and though I fainted when the stitching split, at last I was unbound. My skin was left in ribbons with paper cuts from the past; I found staples slowly rusting in my heart and in my lungs. When I discovered the dust of that life beneath my nails I made a firm commitment to clip them keen and short. Disconcerted friends pledged to send me tape and glue, an alibi to hide behind, or some good, heart-warming food. But the old me was mere confetti now and I fed fistfuls to the wind, I watched it fly then went inside, set to begin again.