Crayon

broken crayons litter the floor

half-finished drawings scatter the dirty walls

my childhood stares me in the face

i should see the happiness but all i can see are the memories that im trying so hard to forget

i see beer cans on the mantle

the cold concrete floor of my room

i can hear the fights that took place one room over

i can hear the dripping of the broken pipe in the wall

i can feel the cold from the window that was broken for two Christmas's straight

i feel the warmth of the last hug my father ever gave me before it all went up in flames

and i can smell the melted crayons