I was just a child
painted red—
for my need
of survival.
To please
and disregard
that gentle voice who said,
\"There are more colors than
the one to survive.\"
Time proved that voice right.
I soon found orange—
the color
of imagination
and discovery.
With it,
I molded a sacred space
in my psyche,
painting over the red
that still showed itself
on my surface
when the screams downstairs
bled through my focus.
Then came yellow,
shouting:
You have a voice
and you should use it.
But even as bright
as yellow was,
red still demanded
to be the loudest—
refusing to create
a beautiful blend
with the other shades
on my surface.
Green came
with the love
and admiration
I had for my mom,
when she still found
the ability
to make us laugh—
even as our world
was falling apart.
But even with the beauty
of green,
red still peeked through,
reminding me:
you can’t escape
the need to please
and survive.
This is until
I found blue,
that voiced on paper
what I could not
speak out loud.
Written words
do not stutter
or stick in your throat
as you stand there,
overthinking
every word
you should say.
No.
Ink just states
the words.
It can end
with a period
for a factual statement
of your truth.
Or it can end
with an exclamation point,
proclaiming to the world
that these are words
you desire to scream
out into the void.
With blue,
the red started
to drown out.
Then came the indigo
of honest sight.
I finally saw things
for what they were,
not what I was
blinded by.
I could see
for the first time
that red
wasn’t just about survival—
it could be the color
of stability.
Finally,
I saw that every color
on my surface
was blending enough
for purple
to appear,
enlightening me
that the colors
were never permanent
to begin with.
When I was ready,
the surface
could be cleared.
New shades
could emerge,
until it was time
to clear the surface
again
for a new start.