The pain, and the using
The endless torture of being slowly dragged across the paper,
feeling my color drain from my body
and the knowledge that when its all gone, they will toss me out,
calling me a peice of trash.
They hand me to heartless little children who peel the skin off of my waxen relatives,
and use me till I'm just a ragged,
colorless,
psychologically scarred,
emotionally dead,
crayola marker.
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