Poem: Crayola Purple
she clutches the prickly fabric closer, pressing
in on herself and wishing the blanket was just that much bigger
just an inch or two
just enough to cover her shivering form, enough to
hide her away from the world
so she can tuck herself into a pocket and disappear
but the cold wind brushes against her bare legs
and she can feel her skin prickle, can feel bumps raise
can feel herself twitch away from the unwelcome touch
she twitches the blanket, pulling it closer still
her fingers biting into the material
and folding their imprint along the stitches
she can hear the sounds of the few brave souls that come
out at this time of night, can feel their spirits entwine
in a similar desire to wrap themselves in rough
fabric and fold in on themselves
and disappear, wondering if anyone will bother to look for them
her footsteps echo painfully inside her empty body
and she pulls the blanket closer still, feeling blisters
raise on her smooth fingertips and a rash rub onto her neck
connecting the purple bruises like a game of connect-the-dots
she used to play with the freckles on her legs
and a washable Crayola marker, always purple
these marks are deeper, cannot be washed away
with a warm, soapy washcloth and a caring smile
and she won’t be sent to her room with a familiar shake of the head
nobody will hide the markers from her
in a vain attempt to keep her from leaving faded
drawings on her fair skin
these marks are not drawn with care, they are
imprinted deeper and cannot be removed by
gentle hands and fragrant soap
and as she tugs the blanket again, leaving a rash on
her neck and blisters on her fingers
she locks eyes with another, similarly clad and pulling
at her own makeshift shawl, half-lidded eyes
full of shame and remembrance
in on herself and wishing the blanket was just that much bigger
just an inch or two
just enough to cover her shivering form, enough to
hide her away from the world
so she can tuck herself into a pocket and disappear
but the cold wind brushes against her bare legs
and she can feel her skin prickle, can feel bumps raise
can feel herself twitch away from the unwelcome touch
she twitches the blanket, pulling it closer still
her fingers biting into the material
and folding their imprint along the stitches
she can hear the sounds of the few brave souls that come
out at this time of night, can feel their spirits entwine
in a similar desire to wrap themselves in rough
fabric and fold in on themselves
and disappear, wondering if anyone will bother to look for them
her footsteps echo painfully inside her empty body
and she pulls the blanket closer still, feeling blisters
raise on her smooth fingertips and a rash rub onto her neck
connecting the purple bruises like a game of connect-the-dots
she used to play with the freckles on her legs
and a washable Crayola marker, always purple
these marks are deeper, cannot be washed away
with a warm, soapy washcloth and a caring smile
and she won’t be sent to her room with a familiar shake of the head
nobody will hide the markers from her
in a vain attempt to keep her from leaving faded
drawings on her fair skin
these marks are not drawn with care, they are
imprinted deeper and cannot be removed by
gentle hands and fragrant soap
and as she tugs the blanket again, leaving a rash on
her neck and blisters on her fingers
she locks eyes with another, similarly clad and pulling
at her own makeshift shawl, half-lidded eyes
full of shame and remembrance