Hue

She wrote me into poems and love letters and songs.

I believed every word, grateful to be molded at all.

She wrote me to paint in unflattering colors.

She wrote me to have no faith, with my gray tint on every moment together.

She wrote me to be empty, scraping the bottom of me and her just barely holding on from falling in… she wrote how devastating that’d be.

She wrote me pulling and pushing and hurting all over.

She asked my written self for what was left, however little, however gray.

I let her paint her gray words of me and I let myself be just that. Waiting for some truer words, truer colors I could be.

I surrendered to my written self; I burrowed into the hollow shell she made of me and I believed it.

I believed it all true until you.

You looked at me and saw a full body of watering seeds, gentle seas of greens and yellows, blueness accepted easily and reds mellowed forgivingly.

You wrote me to paint in beautiful colors and so I did, and so I was.