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Color Box
Alex Perez
Who needs a time machine when you’ve got an old box of crayons?
So strongly scented I can taste the stale wax on tongue.
Crumble the hues with my teeth and I’ve de-aged to a child.
Withered with age, this sparkling box no longer shines.
The Pokémon sticker that made all the difference between the others
Has torn down the middle to read “Pomon”
Beside it lay untouched all the creatures that fascinated me as a kid.
Animalistic mutations that withstood a decade’s passing.
But inside this worn out chest lies the real treasure.
Crayons and pencils in wildly vibrant assortments.
The old colors sticking to the torn wrap have become fragile.
If I color, I fear I might break their bodies, but I can’t resist.
I’ll take the red and peel away another layer of its skin.
Leaving it exposed, perhaps I’ll cerulean instead.
Or silky violet with its wrap so damaged it’s unreadable.
Maybe I’ll take the rarest of the lot, untouched gold.
No, it’s much too valuable to waste, alright, just a little bit then.
I bring them closer to my face and take another whiff.
For a second, I hear my grade school teacher from a distance.
“Stay within the lines, we’re not monkeys, we have thumbs”
