Maye gave me a journal. It had miniature designs on the sides and a plain interior.
"Fill it with who you are," she had told me.
As we painted the doors that day, I found myself mystified by this statement. How was I to fill a thing with my own thought if I had no idea what my thought was telling me? It seemed an impossible task, one that I had no idea how to complete. Maye liked to joke about how my mind reached in every direction, but it did. It reached the tips of the galaxy, to the center of our planet. It didn't care what it broke on its path, it simply ran.
I often found myself mesmerized by paint in question. The methodology of it, that is. Quite intriguing, how one can pick anew, and change from one thing to the next. From orange to green. Blue to purple. Any assortment, but each the same as the other.
In a way, I had used this methodology to escape the truth. The truth haunted me, and still haunts me, regardless of the mechanisms I use to dispel the tremors released from it.
It screamed with invalidation, hung with despair.
A face would hang with it, often a mirror.
I hated the way it saw me, the way I saw me, but I had no way to change. It wasn't a matter of changing, it was the fact that the information regretted lodging itself into my memory, a place already so lost without her.
But in this way, the house was no at fault, for it only knew what it had seen. Just as I had covered its beauty, it longed to return the favor.
That's when the walls began to crack.
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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...
