I don't know why you stick around.

You, with your beautiful spark for life.

I'm about as fire proof as a crayon.

And I melt when kept in the warmth.

But you add color to everything,

Looking at it through the stain glass windows of hope.

Me?

I color everything in my life white.

Bland, boring, pointless.

Not ever a watered-down version of color.

And who wants the white crayon?

So fragile, breakable.

The one forgotten, thrown out with the box.

So, why did you stick around? 

"White contains all the colors." you say

"like light, you can't even see the rainbow

without having a little light first.'