Ten years old.

In my hands was pure gold, or may well have been.

I ripped away the plastic wrapping with a large degree of difficulty

Strange noises rolled out of my throat

The sort of noises small animals made as their last breaths escaped

But that was okay, it was what my kind did

At such a tender age.

Pen in hand, I proceeded to create

Little hearts of red ink

Wreathing Lance Bass.

Seven years later,

I hold in my hands the same gold from so many years ago.

Now it is only paper, an old CD booklet which has long ago lost its plastic

Crumpled at the edges from several years of neglect

Wasting away in a drawer.

No strange noise rolls from my throat

Synonymous with insanity,

Just laughter at my foolish ways.