I am not the colour of the paper I write to you on,
I might be less than violet and so much more than saffron.
I am not just pink but the cerise that flows loudly right through me,
So much more opaque than you could expect me to be.
You thought you knew me,
You thought you could colour-assume me.
But this is not a whine of independence or my anger at you,
This is my exposure of your inadequate recognition of hue.
You thought you knew what I loved and what I might like,
You assumed I was powerless, an ambivalent and naïve white.
You thought I might like you so you beat me up outside a bar,
Until that evening for me turned to a horrible black char.
You were just nervous and protected an inane feigned anger,
While your blood flowed unwelcomed hot colours in amber.
You were heated, you were angry, you were unlistening and you were scared,
You were everything your mother taught you not to be while you only saw red.
You made me feel pain so deep I thought I would never forget,
Like unresolved, undecided oil paint on a canvas still wet.
But whet behind the ears you thought you had resolved your confusion therein,
While you live inside your victory, you’re only shroud in a resentful green.
So we walked in different directions and I chose the white dove,
Because you will never ever know the colour of my love.
You are not my type but you thought that because I was gay,
You could excuse your behaviour with areas you deemed grey.
Unacceptable in my world that thrives on colours in kaleidoscope,
All you do to yourself is tighten that oatmeal coloured neck-rope.
It’s not ok and I hope you find a brighter path before you sink,
But know that there is so much more to my world than simply being pink.
We will walk different journeys – I will send you a white dove,
Because you could never ever know the colour of my love.
I am not just your expected pink but a rainbow that flows brightly right through me,
And we are a so much more wonderment than you will ever understand us to be.
The New PostSecret Book
4 years ago