Some days I like to sit at the table, tapping a pen against a black sheet of paper, staring at the place where the vase had once resided. Light beamed across my face and down my hands from the windows, illuminating the emptiness inside.
When I first saw the house, it had been wondrous and exquisite, the pristine image of beauty. It was whole, and I fell in love with it.
Now, all that's left of its beauty are spots on the walls where the paint had allowed it to escape.
"He's not worth your tears."
That statement itself is ironic because I barely shed any tears over you. Your presence may result in my own discomfort, but the tears were from everything else.
I was beginning to paint it black. In the dark, in a blank nothingness. White is normally associated with blankness, but white has dimension, power. Black, an empty hole that has rooted itself in my soul. It persists in its message, rattling the windows and banging on the doors.
Sometimes I think that if she were here, it would not be as excruciating.
Laying on the floor, staring up at the ceiling, I watch car headlights filter in patterns across my vision, more daring than I had been.
The blank piece of paper remains on the table, unable to move.
Unable to comprehend.
Just as I couldn't.
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...
