Once, when I was younger,
I thought that white crayons were useless.
A white crayon has no value
Not to color the sun, or the sky, the grass, or the night,
And so I went on living, searching for a use for the white crayon.
Once, when I was older,
Not old enough yet to vote, but not young enough yet to think.
I thought that white colored pencils were useless.
A white colored pencil has no value
Not to color homes, or the cars we drive, the people we know, or the money we wish we had,
And so I went on living, searching for a use for the white colored pencil.
Once, when I was tired,
Tired enough to ignore everything, but not tired enough to sleep.
I had long stopped thinking of the white colored pencil.
I had believed that white colored pencils had no value.
Not to color friends, or my family, my memories, or the love that i wished so desperately to feel,
And so I went on living, searching for other colors to replace the white colored pencil.
Once, when I was off guard
You had colored my world white.
And it was so easy for you because my entire world had become black.
You had a way of working with negative space,
As that was my nickname at the time,
And you colored the clouds, and the sun, and a house.
And I was completely stricken,
Because I had never noticed how bright white was.
