Dreaming in Crayon

My childhood was a box of brand-new crayons:

bright and vivid and full of color.

At five years old, I believed I could be anything -

A writer. A dancer. A rose. An elephant.

I wore confidence like a candy necklace, never

leaving home without it.

While my body was always covered in

stickers and tempera paint, my mind

was a blank canvas: no biases or opinions or

self doubt had stained it yet.

Even when the realities of adults around me were

enveloped in splotches of darkness,

they helped make sure all I could see was the light.

But then I turned 10, 15, 20. With each birthday that passed,

my bright kindergarten colors dulled.

I dreamed less, I feared more. The stick-figure art

that had covered my walls was replaced by

empty egg-shell white.

I was given gray pencils and black pens instead of

endless shades of crayons.

I strove to tick boxes,

not color outside of them.

I worked hard to blend in, matching my color

to those around me to ensure I didn't stand out.

I chose clothes that didn't make a statement,

my voice was only used when called upon.

The me that started as neon transitioned to

pastels and landed on muted tones.

There are days when my anxiety squeezes me so tightly

all I see is black.

But what no one ever tells you is that

you can't recover quickly when you're the darkest hue.

You can either cover it up with light or

you can peel back the dark,

stripping and scraping until

you spot a flash of familiar pigment.

It takes bravery to exist in the world vividly, to

open your eyes and fill the black-and-white future ahead

of you with kindergarten color.