Pages of a Book

Some write on me...
Some leave me blank...
Either way, I am shortlived in my purity...
For once I am tainted by a human's ink, I am forever marred.
Some write their memories...
But it hurts me, because I can never shut my eyes and close myself away from the pain when they tear my pages out.

My favorite type of human is a child...
For they color me and make me bright...
But I will never again see a child or feel the touch of their soft skin on my binder...
Now I am in a dark corner of refuse...
Thrown away and tossed out of someone's life forever...
But see...?
I hold their memories...
In a way, I am them.
I think like them...
If only you would take a chance and a little bit of your time to touch me and pry open my rusty lock.
If you would uncrinkle my crumpled up sheets that were used once to be filled with such emotion...
I am a diary...
Won't you use me now and stain me with your own pen?

...(plz vote and comment. Gracias)