i guess you won't have trouble remembering me someday

I can't keep my fingernail polish from chipping.  I just can't and I remember when I had to ask my mom to paint my nails for me.  And even when I learned to do it on my own, I made her paint my right hand.  She's always been better at those kinds of things.

I mean, she's better at everything.  And I'll sit there biting my nails at an incurable mess as she takes it from my hands and turns it into something beautiful.

Then she's like, "I couldn't always do this. You'll be fine as a mom."  But that seems at least three heartbreaks away and I don't have the time.  "You just need to practice."  Or maybe I just don't know where to begin.

Like when I got my first haircut by myself because I knew I was old enough to do it, but  it didn't turn out how I expected and I was too scared to tell her to fix it. My mom took me back and got it right.  (I don't think I'd be able to do that even now.)

So here I am with my nails being the longest they've been since my last mess and I've painted them pink.  And I don't think they're long because I've stopped having reasons to bite them.  And I don't think they're pink because I like the color.

I remember when I liked the color.

My hair is slightly damaged from the times I've dyed it and my mom thinks I've done something wrong, but she still compliments it.

And I just want my crayons back because when I made a mess on paper that was the one thing my mom didn't need to take care of.  Because then it was art.

Now I've discovered new mediums like friends and pins and tags that hang from my rear view mirror and I'm not sure if that's art, but I know that it's a mess.  At least, I know they would make my mother want to clean.

And I just want my crayons back.  Especially the pink ones.

- S.H.