Crayons

She used to love drawing,
With rainbows of shades
A red crayon was her favorite,
The way it glided on the page

Creating horror with each and every stroke,
They would crumple her art,
So she turned to the silver crayon,
And soon nobody spoke,

Time went on, she no longer fit her theme,  
The red crayon no longer glided,
It ripped like a stitch on a seam,
So she turned to a silver crayon,
Creating odd drawings with a razor edge dream.

She hid them under her bed,
For the purpose they bestowed
Waiting for the next word to carve deep, she supposed

They scanned her with their eyes,
And looked at what was carved into her wrists with crayons,
As they marked her a headstone,
They found those red and silver crayons.