My Paper Bag

It was about the length of a forearm, pure white, and quite crumpled paper. A blue lettered logo was near the top of the bag, reading "Drug Store" and partially hidden beneath the rolled fold of the bags top, held together by a staple. Well, it would be read as "Drug Store" if there hadn't been a tear through it, cutting the St from the ore. Even, square shaped crease marks covered the entire object's surface, making it appear as if it'd been folded up before being opened and filled with whatever medicine the purchaser had needed. It was really old now; the bag, that is. It showed crumples and crinkles throughout, giving the feel that it'd been opened time after time, month after month. One would suppose it about time to toss out the piece of junk, but most people just couldn't understand the owner's infatuation with the object. No, it was instead kept on the corner of a tan dresser, by a red nail polish stain that had been their longer than the room's tenant could even remember. It hid part of an aboriginal painting, standing beside an old toy windmill in metallic green, red and gold. The bag would remain there yet, at the very least, until the owner found a more practical decoration for their mirrored wardrobe.