I'm not sure how my life became a child's coloring book. There is wax on my fingers, colored and flaky. Reds and blues I wish could mix to purple but they just stay redblue.

Colors stick to fingerprints so well, too well. They seep into the tips. Handshakes resemble colorful murders. Everyone knows where I am, where I am going, what doors I have opened. They don't know when I'm already in a room though. Light switches remain clean.

We weren't much of a family. We were like crayons sharing the same windowed box, all shades of blue. My mother was a sky blue, so clear and free of gray clouds. She was hope, she was freedom. We found comfort in her, the smells she cooked up from warm ovens. But just like the sky, there was distance. You never quite reached her. Even with your hands raised up, thinking you are right there with her, she was just out of reach.

My father was the opposite. Nightblue, the color of summer nights. There was a darkness in his eyes, a sadness in his brow, and even more distance than daylight. You could never see the stars in him because of the constant smog, a haze that hung around his very being. The way the light poles laid shadows across his face and haunted the gravel in its own silent way. Layers and layers of gravel and shadow and flesh and a heart you hope beat enough.

My brother was an ocean blue, waves crashing back and forth and back again. He was described by the nomadic tides, so I guess the moon was always somewhere in the palm of his hands. He was connected so finitely to the shore, you could see the way his fingers scraped into the sand, reluctant return that was more than a little unsettling. A constant need to escape and see things but always drawn back. And forth. And back again. See the sea.

I can't be too sure which crayon I was. A blue. The generic blue. Special in that there was only me but in only that way. The thing is that you can hide a lot behind smiles. The way the lights and sounds hit the back of my head was some comfort but no one ever takes the time to look all the way through to the back. It was easy to stop at the eyelashes.

I can see the backs of your nails rubbed into her cheeks. Her tears mix well. I guess all you needed to make purple was tears.

I'm not sure how my life became a child's coloring book. The difference between scribbles and cracks in the walls is broken knuckles and raised voices that don't know any better.