I am the crayon who stands sharp over the passage of time, in the front row of the box but always passed over. I’m tall even as the crayons around me shrink and dull, melt and break. The colors around me dislike themselves for their imperfections, watch me with silent envy, but they’ve been fiercely loved even while I hate myself for what I can’t do. I belong in every color group and in none of them, always “other”, no matter how essential I am. I stain with all of their work, but I can’t hold any of mine.
No one ever thinks about the lonely, plain crayon.
Who would want to use me, when I do nothing but fade?