I guard my ego, without any scratch
like the geometry box in the childhood.
Like those circles, rectangles and triangles
I have different faces stenciled
(both Smooth and sharp)
The coldness of that iron case
Is in my speech;
Pointed phrases like the compass
often dot it.
I have different colors outside
But inside I am gray with graphite ;
Staining the hands that open me up
I leave the mark
in a fading black.