Remember how there’s just something about a fat crayon
that just doesn’t behave the way you wish it would?
Kindergarten shame blooms pink blotches across my face 
still at almost 34 years old, because I’m using them now
to color my self-portrait, an array of off-brand colors 
from which to choose; none so deliciously vibrant
as the shiny skinny Crayolas God used to color my friends.

And I’m still staring blankly into my mirror propped on the floor,
only seeing a heap of a person who cannot fit into her jeans anymore,
still unruly frizzy curls and the clock operating in another time zone,
frozen there in a muddy watercolor puddle of pink blue yellow,
wondering how every color of the rainbow 
can be splashed across all the flags flying proudly this June,
but I still can’t hear that quiet voice in my head
that used to tell me what to draw.

It’s been a whole lot easier the last few years to just stop coloring 
this self-portrait. The buzzing in my head at five years old 
is now more of a chainsaw scream, and if I had crushes on boys
in kindergarten and sixth grade and my last year in college,
how dare I choose from the beautifully bold Crayola rainbow
to scribble myself down indelibly onto the page?

I’m still left with my fists full of skinny broken crayons,
wax of every color wedged harshly beneath my nails.
There’s something so tragically poetic that I dig so deep 
each June, hitting a well of scalding tears each year
that now flood my page of verse and scribbles,
still not turning out the way I had ever imagined.