He takes a crayon from the jar and draws violence. He presses the green crayon to the edge of the paper: a waxy horizon extends across. Green goes down; brown comes up. The walls of the house are erected: two square windows divided into quarters and a rectangle-and-circle door. The chimney and angled roof reach upward toward rising, spiraling smoke. Brown goes down; blue comes up. Mommy is drawn with a lightness of hand that can only be called affection. Her hair cascades around teary eyes and frightened mouth. Her blue dress emerges in angles. Blues goes down; purple comes up. A small circle is pressed into the paper behind Mommy's back. The same look of fright leaves desperate indentations in the sheets below. A mirror in purple, his body is rooted in place through shaky lines. Purple goes down; red comes up, is pressed hard into the paper. The monster's face swallows the page, hair exploding toward the upper edge; angry eyebrows over pinpoint eyes that nearly fall into the fire mouth. Teeth menace forward as the crayon's pressure rips the page, tears a small hole at the back of Daddy's throat. Red goes down. Yellow comes up, offering a circle with rays extending: a huge yellow sun in the warm corner, standing witness. Yellow goes down.
Published as lyrics for Matt Rosin and the Dead Raven Choir’s Fire Mouth collaborative LP.