I was white. I was clear. I had nothing in me, like a pitcher waiting to be filled. I didn’t have a tie or a noose or
a destination. I was there, but I was nothing. Like a canvas ready for a painter. Like a blank slate.
I was yellow. I was happy. I saw so much. I learned so fast. I lived. I ate. My grandfather held me, he spun
me. I played all day long. Awaited nothing, knew nothing.
I was green. I was ready. I was surprised and scared. I didn’t know what to do. I was lost. But excited. I
started to feel. I started to become my self. I wasn’t blank.
I was red. I bled, every where. From the inside. From where she hit me. I was weak. I was afraid. But I
learned to be quite. I learned to hide all of it. I knew to be who they wanted. Because I didn’t want to be hurt.
I was blue. She hit me. He left me. He died. They despised me. I despised me. I was alone.
I am black. It’s not dark. Its all in here. Red,yellow,green,and blue. Not blank, not even close. Its a painting. Or
a song. It just came together. I’m not afraid. I’m never alone.