candles have no place telling me it's too dark to see.
Asteriks seem like lonely perfectionists, and
my thoughts don't fit me the way I want them to.
Is there a reason why Sundays make me so sad?
The gritty hugs from relatives make me uneasy-
marshmallows armed with stickiness.
Rough magenta crayons barely being held together,
wax is untrustworthy.
(*written using cut-up poetry technique*)