My family is an old box of crayons,
broken but still functional.
My dad is the red crayon, taped back together at the middle,
appears oh so strong and powerful.
No one will notice the little things just barely holding it together
My mom is the sky blue, snapped in three.
Even when broken everyone still thinks it’s the prettiest,
because why waste something so beautiful
just because it’s been through bumpy roads?
Ben is the bright yellow, pieced together, paper unravelling at the top.
The color every child needs to add the source of light
in their pretty little pictures.
Every issue, every problem shoved under the paper,
no one can see so it stays bright and inviting at least from afar.
Ally is the bright pink crayon, cracked under the paper.
Some people can’t stand it, perfect paper, pretty color,
but the ones that spend their time coloring with it
Find the cracks and breaks even under perfectly smoothed pretty paper
Nate is the grey crayon, sitting at the bottom of the box still sharp.
No one wants it, except for the few
that find out that it is a key piece in any artwork.
That find out it’s much more than that boring one at the bottom of the box.
And me? I’m the white crayon, broken in half.
No one needs it, why does it even exist?
Broken, still it lightens mistakes
it can’t completely fix them but when it tries
it contributes, even if it is the tiniest bit.

• Emi Munroe-Anderson, 1/7/19 •