color blindness

I was born a graying shadow,

I was too small to cry,

and fragile.

I grew to be a little rough and tumble.

I wore pineapple dresses to preschool,

drew in chalk on the sidewalk,

I didn’t have a favorite color.

I played in mud puddles, on swing sets,

if I swung fast enough, I swear I’d fly,

and I did, but only through books,

so fast you’d think I never even opened them.

My favorite friend was a girl just like me,

but as she got brighter, I got dim.

My wild world turned dark,

spun in faded shades

of only black and white.

When you suddenly become colorblind

everything looks like static,

feels like velcro,

there’s no right way to be

when everything about you is wrong.

It’s unlearning a part of yourself

that sometimes people don't see anyway

Color blindness is

wearing what looks good,

but doesn’t feel good.

It’s dating who looks good,

but doesn’t feel good.

Color blindness is being afraid of color,

being afraid of change,

of identity,

of yourself.

It’s not letting you know who you are,

holding onto an identity that doesn’t fit anymore

or maybe never fit to begin with.

The grayscale is starting to fade,

replaced with brilliant colors

that follow me,

seeping into my new identity.

Feeling color again is nostalgic,

it’s pineapple dresses,

or maybe now button ups.

Chalk still in every color.

and books with people who feel

like flying feels.