I'll prove it

I'd use my own blod as ink and scribble over my own destiny-- lies, tales, and fantasies

Anything I wanted, but I wouldn't laugh

Because it may be a lie, but it will never be a joke

I'll read my story to infants and old alike under a full moon at midnight, so I can whisper my secrets to the stars

And curse them when they run off with my desires, but never return with my wishes

I'll describe my mother's hair, curled and uncontrollable, black like a well with endless depth

I'll remember her silent foot and third eye

Especially around me and father. She'd always catch me, but that never stopped me from trying.

Father was silent and stern with high cheeckbones, but just as reckless as I was

I could tell you the story of how he died.

A Hero? Thief? Idiot? I don't decide the worth of a man.

I could tell you the story of a man who died at age thirty-five of a heart attack with no cause.

Or children who's house burned down in a fire and the bravery of the boy who went back inside for his twin sisters, melting half of his body.

Or I could tell you about the time I broke a window. I couldn't leave my room for a week.

I could make you a story.

Tell you of the man in my dreams with little fingers and how he grovels in the dirt reaching for a great sword the size of three men

And the other man with no face who tramples him with his bloodied black boots.

I watched as he broiled in his own blood with dragon scaled skin that cracked like firewood

And between the creases, where his bones should be, there was gold and silver

His dead eyes looked like burning black pearls

I'd tell them thousands of stories

How I lived. What I saw.

I'd tell them things they would never want to forget, As well as things they're glad they don't have to remember

Regardless of who they are or if they care. I'll tell them anyway.

And I'll prove that my life is a novel worth reading.