Is the mantra I chant to myself as I stare at my torment, my restrictive higher power.
Eventually I'll leave here,
I'll explode out of the wooden barricade of a front door, shattering
The thick glass of prison windows like the frail ice of late winter.
Eventually I'll be my own man, free to
Stand up straight and plant my feet firmly into the ground, free to
Breathe air without an obligatory favor in return.
Eventually my life will continue beyond this.
Eventually I'll look back and realize these crawling moments were mere specks of ink flicked onto the expansive manuscript of life.
A few harsh words and flawed theories
And I forget my eventual liberation;
I am reduced to salt water and ignored arguments.
I flee to the temporary shelter of the upstairs,
Shutting the door as quietly and inconspicuously as my trembling limbs will allow.
My cheeks burn with fury and humiliation,
Singeing my eyelashes and burning my freckles
Until my face is a simmering display of hurt.
My teeth are clenched as tightly as my fists,
And my legs wobble unreliably beneath me.
I force my feet to softly walk across the stained carpet until I've reached my relief:
A desk with a pack of Crayola crayons and a ruffled stack of computer paper.
I collapse against the desk.
Frantic tears are wiped from my fiery cheeks as I wrap my fingers around the pack.
I tear the thin cardboard away,
Exerting my anger on the only thing I have power over.
The sticks of colored wax spill onto the wooden surface.
Their vibrant color and sharp factory smell register in my mind as I shake the box
And the last of the crayons clatter onto their brethren.
I angrily hurl the cardboard away from me,
The weak, hollow noise it makes as it flies uselessly off the wall does little to satisfy me.
I turn back to the scattered colors,
Their bright and nostalgic hues calming me if only slightly.
My hands blindly scramble to gather the crayons
And as I mash their perfectly sharpened heads against the smooth canvas
The words on the thin paper surrounding the wax seem to spring out at me:
Periwinkle, as grey and monotone as the sky above me, the wonderful word that had drawn me to the color in primary school.
Wild Watermelon, as intense and demanding of attention as the boiling bitterness inside of me.
Royal Purple, strong and proud and powerful, as I wished I was.
The small squeaking of the medium against the surface of the paper drew me into it,
The marks screaming for the vindication I craved in a language few understand.
Hazy minutes passed
And my energy was spent.
I quietly placed the now worn stubs of crayons to the side,
Resting my chin on the desk as I quietly looked at my Crayola coated anguish,
The feeling trapped on the paper
Like a time capsule of a moment.
Frantic streaks of color mingled with
Swirls and violent, mashed wax pieces,
Displaying an emotion I hoped to trap outside of myself, as though
I could escape the barbed hooks and nets of anger with this simple act.
I cannot evade this emotion forever,
But by trying to lock it away I delay its presence
And can instead focus on my eventually,
Because one day it will no longer be
'Eventually'.
One day it will no longer be
'When I'm free'.
One day it will be 'now'.
One day it will be 'I'm free'.
And one day I will no longer need to hide behind waxy paper
And try to blot out other's negativity with the dulled tip of a crayon.
That day is soon.
