crayons

They didn’t used to let us color with permanent marker.

In kindergarten they gave us crayons,

and when the boy next to you tried to color on you,

the wax slid down your arm and didn’t leave a mark.

In first grade they trusted us with colored pencils.

Sometimes the boy would poke at you,

and if he’d just sharpened it, it stung for a second.

But it didn’t leave a mark.

In second grade they gave us markers.

And the boy discovered that when he drew on people it would stay.

But we were able to wash off his marks when we got home that afternoon.

I’m not sure when we discovered permanent markers.

But by junior high we all had one,

and the boy didn’t have to draw on us anymore.

We did it for him.

Long black marks that didn’t wash off for what felt like forever,

and we’re still carrying around our permanent markers.

Marking ourselves and those around us in a desperate attempt to create,

or sometimes to destroy.

A beautiful flower for a kind word or a smile,

and a long jagged line through it when the boy told you you weren’t good enough.

Now we’re beautiful works of jagged lines and lovely flowers,

but I miss my crayons.