I am a box of crayons
That is what she said I smelled like
It is not the first comparison
I've been told that is what I look like
My closet is a rainbow
There are layers to my being
I am a painter
I have a palette of many colors
Some are vivid and bold
Some pale and soft
Hues of dark and dense
or earth and clay
All are rich with texture
The perfect sharpness
of the unused tips
are so easily softened
as soon as they are pulled
Out of the box
As they are meant to be
Out of the box
Worn and misshapen
Out of the box
Broken and paper torn
Out of the box
Eventually naked and unlabeled
Out of the box
Identified only by
the cones on our retinas
Eliminating the need for category
or organization
All resting together
in an old coffee can
Being
Chosen by
Instinct
Preference
Desire
Willingness
to make a mark
with the color that comes
from the loveliness
that calls my name
In its smallest
Purest
Raw
Used
Form
I am learning
to trust wonder
Like a child
to take a chance
on a nameless chroma
To risk the open ended possibility
of how the scribble that comes from the mystery piece
may alter the layers that are already on the paper
Risk turns to trust
One crayon at a time
until the pigmented wax
is rubbed away
Creating image after image
until a new box is needed
And I hope
when that time comes
I will open them up
pour them all out
undress them from the very beginning
and throw away the box