I’m
born silent.
I take my paste; I use it. I smell it;
I let it waft in my nose. I withdraw the glue from my face, loving the sticky
residue. Kindergarten is sweeter than nuggets of sugar, sweeter than home. I
think its heaven and hell, but find out it isn’t. Punches on the playground
coming from Tommy Slater follow paint splashing with my bare-hands. I taste
evil and joy.
I grow up. I go to college. I go to
life. It feels good, but mostly like nothing. I fail, and sometimes succeed,
but mostly neither of those. I listen to NPR, and write in my spare time.
There’s not much to leave behind. I die crying, because someone else begins and
ends Kindergarten. There is more silence
and more noise. It goes on forever.