I can be purple.
Like the edge of a sunrise.
Like dewdrops on flower petals.
Like dusky perfection.
And I can be purple.
Like the edge of a fresh bruise.
Like smashed plums on the ground.
Like a racing pulse behind closed eyes.
I can be purple.
Caught between two versions of me.
Can I be the lover?
Or must I stay the fighter?
I can be purple.
The soft underside of a bird’s wing.
The brush of lips whispering against skin.
The glimpse of happiness.
And I can be purple.
Hiding my emotions behind a false smile.
Heart in my pocket, not in my eyes.
Better to hold things close than be hurt.
I can be purple.
Like the bags beneath my eyes.
Like the baggage beneath my skin.
Like the battered bricks of an abandoned house.
But I choose to be purple.
Like hope and honor and bravery.
Like a medal earned, not just given.
Like a purpose, fulfilled.
About the Creator
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