Cinnamon Skin

I was made in a factory like all the others.

Paraffin and pigment like everyone else.

I was melted from twenty different pinches of distinctly-colored wax,

Not quite Native caramel but not African cocoa or French vanilla.

The other shades were easily identifiable by name and appearance:

Charcoal, Raspberry, Sunset:

Easily recognizable skins from variety packs.

I, the dusty, ruddy brown was drawn over with them,

never quite the correct shade for someone’s fridge sketch.

The more common wax sticks were blended into lovely hues with their

own stories to tell.

Stories of candlesticks and mica, of pristine metal molds

and boxes shipped to the same country.

How did the little strange color end up in a box in Provo, Utah?

I fell out of my specialty box into a variety pack that was packed into the

wrong plane’s compartment.

I was never meant to be here.

No one wanted me for art projects or leisurely doodles.

But perhaps my masterpiece is waiting for me.

One day, a little girl who’s searching for her skin will find me.

She will weep for joy that there is a hue in that box that fits her

oddly specific shade.

She’ll read the label on my paper dress and caress it lovingly.

“Cinnamon”, she’ll read.

“This crayon is for coloring Cinnamon Skin.”