It starts with crayons that slowly grasp their way on the counter top. In your devilish fingers lay the heavens, in your mind, because you feel that by doing what you are about to do will terminate the word. The word, on your tongue, you repel it beside mosquitoes; it harnesses your voice box so badly. Melting the crayons won’t make it disappear. You decide to melt your brothers pencil case and in awe at the destruction, you bash the play house. It is no longer a playhouse. It’s your iridescent playhouse because you are missing a chair, instead of having four. You retrace your steps to find the chair, but for now it is a figment of your imagination. Everything is off balance. You watch everything r u nnnn iiii nn ggg togetherandtogether until they are all             H
                          A
                           N
                        G
                          I
                       N
                        G
in the wind like a BIG BOLD SIGN SMAKING YOUR TRAIN OF THOUGHT. And then you think what was I doing? Oh yeah the word, the word composed of satanic vowels that no one wants to name or talk about until there is nothing left to circle back too. Her kiss, flying away with the birds being shot at. Freshly cut from your skeleton; the tears of flower petals feast off of the marrow, awakening the name that cannot be said. But like a mother, you cannot push the orphaned language away because you too are stranded. Left with this emotional tailgate party for eternity, you cry in the embrace of the word you hate so much. Nothing seems right, being that you are under the age of ten, other than knowing the word kills. It kills neighborhoods and then you get scared thinking it’s up the staircase sneaking into grandma’s room.  Instead of melting all the writing tools, to make life simpler, you want to burn ALL the words in your house. You think twice because she’ll yell at you, but wait…she’s not there, only daddy, who is away at work. You find a match and see the vibrant colors bounce off your house that smells and looks like her. Her. Hidden in the creaking of the door beside the kitchen. Her. In the running water beside the tub, kneeling down on the linoleum, one hand and two knees washing you to look and be pure. But pure is for those who have been blessed by God and your life is everything but pure. So now you hate God. You hate words. You hate anything that speaks out to you as her. And in your delusional, skewed mind you end up hating everything. Even her. But not she, only the thing who took her, stole her last breath. You sit on top of a floor, now colored with the crayon labeled as anguish, in a room that starts gnawing away at your numbness, wondering why God wanted to play musical chairs with her body.