wordsmith

my skin is a canvas
since i was born, i drew on it
i always had the utensils to create a masterpiece
since i was born, i knew that.  
 
when i first went to school
they saw how different i was,
my mind and my body,
they didn’t like that
nor the fact that my skin  
shone bright in all the colors of the rainbow.  
 
the others may not have all the utensils i had
or didn’t know how to use them
now my pride began to crumble
because everything i liked -
everything i was - was disliked.  
 
fast forward, new school, i was ten
my pride was not restored, nor the paint
the colors fade and i don’t know what to draw
to make them like me.  
 
i met a boy when i was 13
he made me feel special
but when he saw what i was,
my depth and colors,
he kept getting angry, loud, destructive.  
 
now a knife was being added to my utensils
something sharp to cut out the parts he touched
to cut out depth and love
the canvas now cut in half
red blood and hot tears dripping on the floor.  
 
“i can’t to do this anymore!“  
didn’t know how to put away that knife
or the hate for me and my life
it’s called suicidal ideation
 
i’m almost 17
i don’t know what to draw
and lack the courage to shine bright
to being liked for what i am.  
i ended up losing myself
trying to fit in left scars
i’m clean now, but i didn‘t make a plan for my future  
i was sure i don’t have one
i just wasn’t aware that this is not normal
 
today
i’d rather write than draw  
shining bright  
words filled with pride
about things i hate,  
things that make me cry
or the things that turn my face red.  
with color, my voice,  
and everything i am
i create the masterpiece
i am destined to become.  
the words have taught me.  
 
i never felt more seen
i never felt more understood
than now
than by being a wordsmith.