of paper and ink

three years old --

mumma tells me

"dont disrespect a book

else it will not teach you all that it knows"

i listen to her

and see the book in new light

i see the inanimate object as an equal

seven years old--

i am too shy to speak

they think i cannot speak english

if only 

if only they could hear the colour in my mind

the words that overflow 

the words that course through my blood

eight years old--

words have become my solace

but yet i cannot understand

why the other kids refuse to sit with me

is it jealousy ? fear ? disgust ?

words are my only friend

i learn to grow into them

eleven years old--

new school

time to start over

i hone my words

build a defence 

sharp as ice

white hot like fire

i find myself dark and alone

my words are my prison

twelve years old--

they make it through

my ash kissed walls

my cold room

where i writhe in grief

they pull me out of my words

breathe life back into my exhausted mind

it looks like it is impossible 

to escape ones words

fourteen years old--

i am learning

slowly 

slowly

painting my mind once more in colour 

picking up the pieces of this mistake

this error code

they are there with me

my words

my gift

my blessing

my curse

my creator 

my destroyer

---------------------

mumma says 

to respect a book

and it will teach you all it knows

i am still learning

still painting

still hurting

still destroying

i have a long way to go