My head is a picture book novel.
   The words and images my mind’s
   camera collects every day
   have been shaping me
   since I’ve been very small,
   so that I use phrases from books
   I read when I was three,  
   and I cry at songs
   that are meant to be happy.
   My actions are reactions
   I’ve learned to use
   from watching my parents talk
   on the phone
   or from a clip of a movie
   I scrolled past while surfing channels,
   or hearing lyrics on the radio
   that tried to make a point.
My head is a picture book novel,
but sometimes, even I skim
past the words.

My heart is a palette of colours.
   Every person I’ve come across
   has made their mark -
   be it the sloppy spattering of indigo
   from the girl I bumped into in the hall,
   or the delicate transition
   from amber to scarlet
   from him with his uneven smile.
   I’d like to think that
   I leave everyone’s heart
   more beautiful than I found it,
   but I know that that’s not true.
   I know that sometimes
   I forget to apologize,
   so I never remove the stains
   of grey and charcoal
   that I perhaps didn’t accidentally leave.
   Maybe in my quest to be a
   better person, I should try
   to remember to paint over
   work I wouldn’t want myself
   to be remembered by.
My heart is a palette of colours.
But right now, I wouldn’t
hang myself on a wall.