You know that crayon in the box,
That hasn’t been sharpened since you opened it?
Your favorite color;
the one you
Always use for the sky-
Even though it looks
Nothing like it?
That small, blue crayon,
Weathered by masterpieces.

That crayon is me.
Imperfect.
Unsharpened…
But you love me anyway.
And I see the way you look
At the white crayon.
Perfect in everyway.
Unblemished;
unused…
Infact I saw you turn away
In boredom.

You picked up another color
That you like to use to make
Lips look like blood.
It pleased you to see the
Intense beauty in each jolt
Of your wrist.
Then, when there was nothing
Left to stain with this new color,
You realized how empty everything
Else was without me.
And, once again,
I was in your hand.

I am the crayon that soothes you.
Calming with motion,
Sometimes used for the ocean.
But I can be vibrant too.