Outside the Lines

The black outline guides my hand.
Silent as I scribble over it,
marring the neat black ink.

Inked in so carefully by an unknown hand.
A hand that decides what is correct.
What is right.
Dictating my picture's outcome.

An invisible hand should not be given so much power.
But it's just a drawing.
How much power can a child's scribble possess?

The shaky marks,
colors swirled,
patternless.

Light, a touch that is barely there.
Or hard. Rupturing the paper's smooth surface.

It is like spilled milk.
Anything can be seen in the lines.
Between the lines, anything can have meaning.
Anything can have power.

I flip the page over to start anew.
Determined that this time, I will get it right.
A new outlined shape lies before me.

Containing within it bunnies, ranbows, flowers.
Age-appropriate, fun things to color.
Meaningless.

I stare down at the crayon I have clutched in my hand.
My adult-sized fist dwarfs the small stub.
Worn down from years of coloring.

I am convinced it is worn from being used to color outside the lines.
I was lawless in my youth.

My hand moves over the paper.
I strike out the plain black lines.
My lines form shapes,
free from the invisible hand.