Crayons are melting in my hands,
leaving vibrant stain that
can't be washed away without
taking something with them.
The pictures were so neat
before the fever took its toll
and turned them into warm smears
to erase the indelible lines.
I tried to let go, to finish,
but the wrapping paper seams split and
seeped their gooey entrails
between my squeamish fingers;
all the color pooled, half liquid
children's paintbrushes bleeding into
chaotic masterpieces that
mocked their own duplicity.
Crayons are blistering my hands as they
drip like skewed candles onto
already scalded images that I
spent so long creating;
I should have know better than to
play with fire, but the match heads were
such an enticing shade of crimson that
begged me to strike them on the paper
and create fire in two dimensions,
but I overlooked the rules.
So now I'm bleeding wax over the
ground out, labored nightmare renderings
that were so simply scarred away,
and the crayons are melding with my skin
to brand neon handprints into my soul.