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My pages are printed on with black ink.

I am stories of life, whether they are true or not.

The eyes of curious creatures explore my reaches.

Some are kind and take care of me,

Making sure I am on my shelf and comfortable.

While others are rough and injure my spine or dog-ear my pages.

I have done nothing to deserve this mistreatment.

I am one’s perfect story, and another’s worst.

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