Blank Slate

Arrows and stones: a child’s song
Protects the fragile boy
From all who want to paint him
As if he were as blank as Locke
As if he just arrived on the cul-de-sac
That morning for the first time:

He had not.

He was there the day before.

He had been there days before that.

And so on… like a hall of mirrors
reflecting him back and forth, forever
He’d been there.

Now, though, now,
They see him cry
And think:
A fete!
On him,
We can paint all the shades of our pain!”
As if the color under his skin wasn’t on the spectrum. 

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