I cannot write right

It was just a fluke that I happened to see

The ghost of a girl in 1893

I didn't think much of her, tried to ignore

But then she came 'round in 1894

A spirit was not something that I had wanted

Did you know that, when you wrote me, I was made of papercuts

That I was ink and glue and wax but mostly, I was papercuts

Did you know that, when you read me, I am made of memories

Do you remember when your mother's hands were magic?

When they looked like hands

Smelled like hands

Felt soft and calloused and strong like hands but weren't like your hands because