You are so busy eating,
the dirty black crayons.
In the backseat of mom’s car.

To color the words,
of your anger and frustration.

In the backseat,
there are more crayons.
Other colors, for you.
To draw the pictures,
in your harsh language.

You just don’t see them,
or the other passengers bleeding out,
after the impact.

Are we there yet?

We are not.