The Orange Crayon

I understand this will be bizarre coming from a piece of crayon (orange colored), but I don’t give a shit. People are unusual and nasty, as far as I have witnessed. For crying out loud; who in their right mind puts their lips on a piece of colored wax?! It is beyond me.  See, this is already getting weird. Told you so. I mean, somebody has got to say something. Perhaps, it’s gonna be me to tell it.I hope I don’t get interrupted by the red crayon (Lou) that fecking blabber mouth. Can’t stand him. Always got something to say. Never clear what he says. Always stopping mid-sentence. Everytime I see Red Lou, I distance myself from him. He’s got something to say, but I am not one to listen to his Bullshit. Sorry if it sounds harsh, but I refuse to waste air with an idiot. So telling you about my grievances towards people would be the appropriate choice for that position.

 So. 

Where was I? 

Ah, yes! 

Sometimes, late at night, stuck in some purse, back pack,  wooden box, closet, or under a bed, I’d hear these people have wild sex. How do I know about that? Well, I wasn’t born yesterday. I’m not a moron like Lou, ya know. I pay attention to what’s in front of me. I listen – word for word – to what these folks say to each other, and about each other. Scandalous things happen right in front of me. Episodes of violence and sex. Lots of wild sex. 

Like right now, I am spilled out on the floor of the closet, with nothing to do, but be a voyeur. I’m watching this big feller holler. 

He’s wearing a collar and some kind of black suit, made out of leather, and he’s on his knees. He howls. HOWLS! Like a damn wolf. He crawls around the red velvet carpet floor, like some dog, while this mistress walks him. Mistress in a bubble-pink dress. She grips a leash, pulling on his neck. If she commands to stand, he stands. If she commands to roll, he rolls. If she commands to eat shit, well, you know the answer. He rolls over, gets spanked, gets hurt. It doesn’t bug him; rather, it strangely satisfies him. That gal in the waxy pink dress is paying him attention and he loves every moment of it. He lives only to serve her.

He is a slave. 

If I had limbs, joints, and fingertips, I would kick that dirty dog and command him to get up and straighten his back. Folks like him are lucky to have knees, legs, arms, and fingertips. He can communicate and express his feelings. I don’t have that option. I have optics, a brain, and a heart. But no legs, no arms. I’m nothing at all. Just a thing people use to press on a piece of paper. They drag me around and around. I give life to paper, but I have none. 

I am a slave.