11/30

Dear pencil

Your fear of commitment is what did it.

Your vague grey trace and your dwindling point.

Your lack of contrast.

The tiny metal corset on your back.

The way it made my gums bleed when I bit through.

The way you assumed I would be mistaken.

Your silver medal, and how proud you were to come in second.

Your swamp holly orange, like an anorexic school bus.

The crowd you ran with at school.

Your carbon core, without the ambition to be diamond,

the sophistication to be flesh,

wanting nothing more than to weakly be my words.