Box of Crayons

You can be anything you want to be

that's what they told me.

So, on Monday I'm orange

like a bright curious bubble of light floating along, wandering, no exploring, the world around me. Everything appearing bright and shiny and new. The possibilities near

endless.

Waking on Tuesday I'm the tantalizing shine of red maraschino cherry.

Just as tasty. Just as fun.

Just as

brown as a rotting bruise on a piece of fruit come Wednesday.

It's not that they did anything.

It's not that I did anything either.

It just. . . happened. As if waking, moving, existing tarnished the brilliant colors inside of my soul until they all mixed together and spilled out in a blah of being.

Thursday is black like a moonless night with no stars.

Black like the tar-esque charcoal mask I smear across my skin because it's "purifying" and will "cleanse" the dirt on the inside. I don't think it goes deep enough.

Friday is white.

It's three centimeters long and two centimeters wide and one centimeter thick and goes down easy with a cold glass of water.

It'll help you feel better.

It'll make you you again.

They said,

so you can get back to being whatever you want to be.