Lonely Perfectionism

Luminescent stones leap out to rest under my feet-
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*)