a simple misdiagnosis

I was diagnosed at a young age with

a chronically bleeding heart in all the wrong ways;

it’s permanent, long term terminal.

The very next day I tripped on the lip

of the concrete over sidewalk dandelions

and dusted chalk. I could do nothing but watch as

my freshly broken skin dripped a

viscous jonquil yellow thick onto the ground.

Since that day, I have always suspected

that the only thing that would ever be

able to truly see me for this light is

a species of shrimp whose eyes see colors we can’t even imagine.

And still today, I’m up past the moon each night,

pressing my brain into patterns to try and

recreate myself from memory through their eyes.

Trying to place all the right hues onto my skin

For the last 12 months. Pieces of that skin

have started to de-pigment, becoming alien

like rice paper is see through, fragile in the same way.

The blue in my eyes we saw

bright as a child has been draining

for even longer, paling to a type of sky that I don’t

recognize in the mirror.

Every piece of my body is a donor this month,

while we wait for the color to seep back in. A system

powered by my old heart, tired from beating

and lovingly bleeding

in the hopes of pumping light back into

my old home.