From the eager age of three, my mother taught me not to draw on myself, or I would get ink poisoning. Every time ink touched me, I'd wash it away with a warm cloth and some lingering worry. You wrote our initials on my ankle in deep blue pen, and I kept my left leg out of the bath for a week.
At the spritely age of eight, my mother made me promise never to talk to strangers. I kept my head down and my walls built high and I never said a peep to a stranger wrapped in shadow.
The first day I met you, I lay all my secrets down on that warm summer concrete and watched while you picked through them. (You didn't mind.)
Twelve years old, with a crooked, hopeful smile and my mother sat me down to talk about drugs. Those crazy, tempting things that will take away all your inhibitions and make you forget the very lessons that formed who you are. More addictive than anything you've ever had. They'll make you feel higher than the empire state building; without them, you'll go through a withdrawl worse than anything. A coexistent dependancy that will take over yourself. She reeled off a listen of words; Esctasy, LSD, ******, Crack. Somehow, she forgot to mention your name.