this is how i've always been
a book is splayed open on my lap and i am hunched over scrawling in what i think is cursive. i scrunch my eyebrows in concentration because looking serious and deep in work are adult things to do. i vandalize my colorful hardcover books one by one. i don't yet know how to write in full sentences, much less hold a pen properly, so loops and zigzags suffice. the busywork is therapeutic and i flick the final stroke off the page like a checkmark.
the orange pencil crayon couldn't have a thinner nib. i am the only one left at a table. the rest of the kids are cross-legged on the floor and the scratching of my pencil crayon competes with the teacher's lesson on shapes. the air conditioner is on but sweat forms on my forehead and i color faster.
i'm at a birthday party on someone's rooftop. in front of me are flimsy plastic chairs and tables dressed in a vinyl tablecloth but the neighbors' clotheslines interest me more. the other kids crowd around an adult explaining to them how to win a prize as i sit on the periphery. i am the closest to empty space even though we are all under the same sky. i fiddle with my goodie bag.
i am seven, twelve, it doesn't matter. any attempt at explaining myself is met with punishment. i should've known better, i should've known before trying. i keep making mistakes i'm not allowed to. all i can do is stay silent and look anger right in its face.