When I was in 2^nd grade, my teacher taught us something about crayons that I’ll never forget

She told us we're all different colored crayons living in the same box for the same reasons. 

To make art. 

To make beauty.

Even if it gets outside the lines.

How we're all different,

But that's what makes us the same. 

Like how yellow is the girl he never loved locked in laundromats, using tears as detergent once again

Red is the outcast eating her lunch in the bathroom, but not enough because she wants to be thin

Violet’s an unmarried elementary school teacher blaming emptiness on jean pockets from '02

Green’s a schizophrenic whose still got swine flu

Gold’s a new yorker dreaming of tea parties,

But more the boston kind.

You see,

Our palms never were the same color,

But our hearts , they always have been. 

So here's my pink crayon,

Or her white crayon,

And his that might be purple, but feels more dark shade of blue crayon,

Take the spot next to mine,

Tell me about that stain orange left,

And baby next time,

I’ll go to the laundromat with you. 

Because i'm in your box,

And you're in mine, 

And being different doesn't mean you can't be loved.