In the orphanage where I was raised
Many a year ago
I was known as the Dark Angel
Of that small Catholic-run home.
The other children
Light and Fair,
Turned their heads from me
While I, the boy
Of colors black
Cried alone, so no one could see.
Yet one day, I was given hope
Someone wished to include me
In their game.
And I sat down
In the circle round
With all the other children.
And one said…

“I spy
With my little eye
Something…
Bad.”

And as I glanced around
Eager to win
The voices chimed in.
“The stain on the wall?”
“The spill in the hall!”
“The demon etched in the glass?”
“A spitball in class!”

A resounding no to all.
And I still looked around
The boy of black
Eager to please
But the game was to be played
Not with others
But on me.
“We give up!”
We all shouted with glee.

And a finger pointed accusingly.
And my dark eyes settled
And a cold chill swept through.
“Damir Soull,” The girl stated, pleased.
“I spy something bad.”

…And it, as always, was me.