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Crayola Dreams MAG
I watch her wash away my soul,
my creative being
immersed
in a flow of
sudsy
cold
harsh
cruelty.
Her anger obstructs
my view of beauty,
the picture perfect
abstract
portrait puddle
on the floor.
"Mommy," I say to her,
my blonde curls limp
under the weight
of streaming tears.
"Why?"
She says that it is
wrong
messy
not good
- bad -
but I think that it was beautiful.
She taught me how to hide
my crayons,
shame
blanketing my face.
The rain falls harder
with each drop of Lysol
on my refrigerator mural.
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