I was a small child, once, and
I told my stories in pictures, back
then. I told my stories in pictures
done in marker on the bed sheets
until my mother made me stop. Then
I told my stories in colored pencil
on the floor until my father took
those away. Then I curled up
by the white walls until both
parents asked what I was doing.
With a crayon in each hand, I said,
Telling the truth.
What do I do?
I dream truth, I like blue, and lightning strikes up.
What am I like?
You'll never catch me as anything less than myself. It's just that sometimes, I'm a negative number.
Who am I?
I'm a different child every time you look away.
