As I got older I began to see life in a new light. 

Colors no longer bright, I remember my childhood. 

A sticky canvas, stained with innocence. Remember

Its taste of dried playdoh and vitality. A childhood

haze, I spent my days by the water, the humidity 

Running its heavy fingers through my curls. 

Back then I relied on my hands, using them to 

Find new ways- new meanings to life. I didn’t use

Them to pinch my eyelids raw at night. I used 

Them to color in the lines. The only voice that

Whispered was the one I was told to use in the 

Library (shh), not the echoes of desperation clawing

Their way through my vocal chords.  

I remember when I could hear myself think clearly,

When I could find the words to explain what I wanted-

What I needed in that moment. Back then a cry for help

Was not a sign of weakness. But as I get older I struggle to find

Worth in myself; I channel my energy into someone

Who isn't truly me, a pixelated outline lost in a 

Static sea. I allow numbers to define me, a virus, the result 

Of a toxic society. The entirety of my existence

And future is embedded in a single transcript. My 

Whole life, nothing more than another statistic. 

Wild eyes speak words of an eternal abyss, kerosene 

Fingertips My shepherd. Kaleidoscope vision, I don’t see like

Others I see in broken sunbeams, stained murals in black and white.

Over time, I learned that I could not be trusted. That I would rather

Draw strength from the bitter words of others than myself.

Because sometimes it's easier to find purpose in the pain and

Harder to find purpose within self.