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life begins to bleed

a rich pigment. warm and dull.

new replacing the dead and past

warmth spreading over the endless

sheets of dull tree and dirt.

the single blushing tulip

nestled in a sea of greens and yellows. grays

the specific shade of blue

of a sky nestled with clouds of rain.

the pastel of early blossoms

peaking their way out of a surprise snowfall

the colors shift and rage

across the gray of my consciousness.

i open my eyes to the bright

for the first time 

after the leden, begrudging,

moody, gray had taken my spark away

and as i close my eyes.

when my memories play

as i stare at the ceiling 

before I go to sleep

the colors lose their luster

i fall back into the sea

of gray alleviation. 

nothing pulls me from this vacuum

things are not all the same.

i am not the same

a new hue here,

a trashed saturation there,

and the wicked world wakes up all the same.

the end is gone.

the beginning has come.

colors bloom

why do i still feel

the gray will never end.

A heart-beat rhythm in time,

With your addition of lime, 

To bright-red salsa, 

(here it gets faster) 

While your boyfriend’s on the line. 

He saw some roses (pink) 

In North Carolina, he thinks

Ohio’s still far, 

But that’s where you are 

So he will be there in a blink. 

The phone call ends, 

Your girlfriend sends 

A kiss from across the table. 

We’re all good friends, 

Still I pretend 

To feel better than I am able. 

Here black and white divide:

The schism from which they derive

“Taboo” a lie, 

And yet, I try 

Some of your food– my, am I green.

2-The Color I Once Assigned to You

Cotton candy, sunsets, peonies, and the color  

I once called myself was pink. 

A pretty pink, like easter and nurseries for baby girls. That was me. 

I didn’t know who you were when I met you. 

Were you red, orange, or a faded blue? 

I quickly found that you were green.

Fresh mowed lawns and mossy tombstones. A green 

heart found its way next to your name. It was the only color 

that made sense. You asked me why it wasn’t orange, or a nice navy blue. 

I didn’t have an answer. Maybe it’s because I think green and pink 

go nicely together. Like a beautiful bouquet of flowers or a pink sky against green grass. You

would always be green. I wondered what color you had assigned to me. 

I asked you one day if you thought I was pink. You told me 

I was a light blue. So, there we stood, blue and green. 

The open waters of deep oceans, minty toothpaste, hummingbirds, bruises. I believed you.

I took on my new color. 

Blue was cool and calm, not brightly filled with affection like pink. 

I could be blue.

Life was good being blue. 

Stolen kisses and silent stares, weekend trips and secret handshakes. I liked the new me.

It wasn’t like being pink. 

It complemented your tea green 

like the color 

of pretty jewels. I liked that blue could keep you.

The northern lights you 

so longed to see were right in your room each time we met. Dancing lights of green and

blue. I’d never seen such a

color. 

Pink and orange sunsets were lost on me. 

There was nothing like the tides of blue and green 

I witnessed those long nights. I forgot that I was ever pink.

I would have eradicated the color pink 

from my world and memories if it meant I could keep you. 

In fact, I would revoke every single color except for your distinct green 

and my dusty blue. 

I would give up sunsets and rainbows if it meant you would keep me 

and my newly designated color.

But I was pink, not blue. 

I thought I was so careful to tuck my pink edges, but you discovered the real color assigned to me.

I haven’t found that shade of green anywhere else since, but I would give anything to find that color.