memories of our past

Y

You started coming to my house almost every night, bruises that covered you head to toe and when I asked you, you told me it was because you liked to box because it calmed you down.

What a lie we tell when me feel trapped in the box we're confined in. I should know.

August 19 was the night that I saw you for the first time your true self. The self that you've been harbouring inside of you. Maybe I'm wrong, a part of yourself that you've never let anyone see. We were lucky that my parents were rarely ever home, or they would've called the police.

You yelled, and you threw things. I sat in my bed listening to you talk about him and her and they. You weren't angry with me, but with the world. You seemed tired, and I couldn't figure out why. I feel so stupid for missing all the signs.

That was the night you told me again about the sky. Telling me what the colors of the world meant to you.

You hated the color yellow with a passion, it was funny to hear you talk about it. How passionate you were about getting rid of the color always made me laugh. It was too bright for your likening, too many things reminded you about them. Yellow was one of them.

The sun was yellow, you hated the day time. Bananas were yellow so you never bought them or ate them or even went near them.

I don't think you hated the color yellow, I think you hated the memories you had.