spilled crayon box.

Red used to be one of my favorite colors.
Cherries, apples, strawberries, cartoon mushrooms, ring pops, candy.
Everything pretty was red.
Pretty was always something I’ve wanted to be.
Red is an untouchable beauty in the modern day.
Roses, hearts, love.
Love was always something I’ve craved.
Even when I got enough, I always felt empty.
Red rolls down my wrists, small tiny drips.
The red tells me that I’ve done enough.
That I’ve gotten what I needed.
The red tells me that I am pretty. That I am enough. That I am lovely.
Only when the red fades and the white comes; only then do I feel ugly.
White was never inaccessible, an easy color to taint.
Little kids don’t scribble with the white crayon, rather they dig in the crayon box for a new crayon to use.
So I taint it.
Paint my wrists red once more.
Red used to be one of my favorite colors.
Now it consumes me.