The number-one step
Of filling your page
Is to draw lines
That Create clear shapes.

Sturdy, black walls
Nothing can seep in
It protects your life
And the choices that come.

But,
Something is very wrong with my lines
My lines are dotted.
Present,
And useless

No matter how hard I try to fix it
The marker clumps into sections.
Leaving a path of vulnerability behind
For destructive colour to follow into my soul.

The problem isn’t that my lines are unobservant.
No.
They know when a pen bleeds too far through the space.
And they know it doesn’t matter in the case;
Crayon or ink, black or pink, unseen or unintentionally mean.

The problem?
They are too cowardly to speak up.
Too lazy to cleanly erase the mess that has been made.

My lines are dotted.
And they let the worst shades of all pass through with ease.