when i was little,
i was a thief of white paper,
multicolored markets,
and a single word.

on each sheet, i scrawled my name repeatedly,
color after color, row by row,
searching for myself in its void
until the page became a schizophrenic rainbow.

now, i fill the gaps of lined notebooks
with ink scribbles and confused monologues,
using words other than the one i was born with
until the page dims into a smeared haze.

yet somehow its purpose remains.