i am made of wax

Personal Shopper || Mariel

Marie had been planning on heading elsewhere for her prom dress. Shopping in Swynlake was hardly that exciting; Marie had lived there almost her entire life, and had seen the high street change over the years. Even then, it didn’t interest her. She had been shopping in Paris, in Milan - Swynlake had some gems, sure, but nothing to suit her tastes.So she was considering going further afield. Knightsbridge, probably. Maybe Oxford. She could even head up to Edinburgh if nothing took her fancy, but that wasn’t going to stop her from looking around in Swynlake, seeing if there was anything to give her some inspiration, or even anything she might actually like to buy. You never know. She wasn’t above buying something from one of the little boutiques.

It was in one of those little boutiques that, out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ariel looking at one of the dresses. It was awful to begin with, a sunset orange colour with some frilly trim and… were those rhinestones? It was enough to make her shudder. But even if Ariel had liked it, Marie couldn’t let her buy it. She just couldn’t. Edging towards her, she said, “You know… if I were someone with your colouring… and your gorgeous hair… I’d probably go for cool colours, not hot ones.” She said, and then she beamed. “They’ll set off your eyes too.”


A box of crayons should be radiant
I think
The most rainbow a rainbow could be

As a crayon, I have friends
Like sun-kissed skins of cherries and the brightest sunset orange,
Like the candlelight shine off polished silver
and translucence that looks turquoise in light

You see, when I drag myself across paper
It leaves colors like pine-needles and ferns in my wake
Like the path through a thicket
and the thicket itself

But when I bleed out my name in evergreen wax
I hear, “Oh,
What a beautiful pink.”

But… I am not a pink crayon

I am not a pink crayon
But still, they call me “Primrose,”
Call me: “Carnation,” and “Salmon,” and “Blush”
I hate being wrapped
In pink paper straight jackets -
The hue of sore gums beginning to bleed -
See, I never could color in lines

“Oh,” they say “you’re one of those blues,
Who got stuck with pink paper labels.”
“I see now,” they say like it’s one or the other
Like colors are a matter of one or the other
Like when you open that box
There are two crayons to choose
You don’t see me at all

“But green’s not a color you can be, silly girl,
Green’s not a color at all.”

Here I am
Made of wax the most breathtaking shade of pine trees in spring,
The splendor of moss cascading down bark,
Of fluttering leaves and of lily-pad stems and the way
Sunlight hits seaweed through water

Let me spruce up our drab cardboard box of a home
Let me add my most marvelous hues
And make space for the violets that lay beside me
For the crimsons and peaches and beige
This box contains more than just blue and pink
Add my shades to the list on the back

I’m not pink
I’m not blue
Nor blue-labeled pink‑-­
I write in such vibrant
Shades of myself

I am the color of growing things reaching toward light
But nobody sees it at all

I’m a lonely green crayon in a cardboard box
Full of color-blind pinks and blues

—  Confessions of a Crayon (On the Box That They Live In)