Black Crayon

I am seven, sitting cross-legged on the kitchen floor,

gripping a black crayon hard enough that my knuckles turn white,

air escaping too-small lungs in desperate, ragged, gasps.

There are lines here, on this white page,

but they’re not enough,

just scattered fragments of a child’s mind,

desperately trying to form some semblance of sanity.

Tears fall across waxen lines and I’m shaking,

watching my crayon as it clatters to the floor.

Papa brushes a tear from my cheek.

We watch in silence

as its weight makes the paper buckle.

“Look,” he whispers, running gentle fingertips over waxen streaks.

I cry harder. It’s hideous, isn’t it? This mess of lines?

He only smiles, shaking his head.

“You did it, darling girl.

You told your story.

And that’s enough.”

...

You define good writing as the substance of textbooks and novels,

pretty words on high shelves that the common man cannot reach,

as if social media has somehow corrupted the written word.

And I suppose it is unsophisticated here, among flashing screens and jumbled text.

...

I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that the lack of periods

at the end of my sentences

determines the worth of my craft.

I’m sorry that this has been done before.

But the words on this page are my own.

So while you define who is good enough

to play this game of ink and agony

I will be sitting here

with a black crayon and ugly words

telling my story.