in a box in my childhood room are drawings
i made when i was too young to understand
that the world isn’t always made of shades of
apricot and asparagus and aquamarine,
that real things happen and can’t be erased with a new pencil,
that not all evil people have devil horns and pointed eyebrows.
i sit crisscross applesauce on a scratchy rug
and i try to feel things again;
wet crayola emerald drips down my hands,
covers the floor,
and somehow my chest still aches and
there are still handmade gravestones in the backyard.
i haven’t turned back time with nostalgia,
i’ve only wasted an hour.
paint on my fingers
is just that. paint.
it’s not the memories
or the good times
or the things i’d forgotten brought to life again.
it’s paint, and it’s wet and sticky
and smells like a time
when i thought i had it all figured out.