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'a floor with personality,
stains that make it look like a dye-job gone wrong.
'same.' '

I'd written, while looking down at the canteen floor.
It was the day I was told to walk around Inchicore College and look for some
inspiration for the haiku poetry workshop but
nothing.
Nothing I came up with was that good.
But I was still happy that day, that year-
happy because I thought so.
Even with my crazy purple head and boyfriend I didn't love.
Even with the bleach burning my brain and him not loving me either.
I didn't care about my roots and I still
thought
that was love.

I still had personality and
stains but
nothing
had gone wrong yet.
I can't write the same now.