She hung my painting in the hall.
It was a Wednesday afternoon, the vibrant colors shining through the clear glass bay window. I had given it to her with no occasion, simply being. She had demanded to put it in a frame, the brown and bland backing compared with the lovely, brightness of the watercolors. They streamed down the page, crying into her arms.
Staring at it after, it cried with me, for remembrance. I often regret it's existence, knowing it is simply something of my creation from a time when things had been wondrous. That and kind, humble to the idea of vengeance.
You once told me you would paint my dreams for me.
I suppose that's why my walls are empty. You took them from me.
Dramatized or not, the fact remains that for the longest time, I was lost from myself. Where I had once gone east as you headed west, I stood in a fog without any sense of direction.
"I promise you did well." I had always questioned this, whether you truly believed or not, or whether I accepted it as that. It was such a simple phrase, one that had such little importance at the time. But as I stood back at the counter at the paint store, a collection in hand, I recalled another memory.
"But I can't finish it." Your reference was of something trivial, but like the tiniest of details, it was one of the truest statements to ever reside and escape your lips.
YOU ARE READING
Colors Behind the Glass ✓
Poetry[COMPLETED] Lonnie has been through several life-changing events. The most impactful is the death of their abuelita and the loss of someone close to them as they came out as non-binary. They have struggled with coming to terms with these two facts...
