resonance

And I am made of resonant colours.

Here is the petal-pink of my cheekbones,

the night-blue veins that decorate my skin.

Lily-white and delicate, I scar easier than most;

walk the jagged lines across my thigh where

I have grown and wilted and grown again,

and know that it is no small thing—

my resonant frequency, the hues that I bleed.

I hold onto everything I have ever touched.

Encased in the amber of a dying sun,

the same sun that paints the ochre dots

along my collarbone, I am a gallery of

desperate strokes across a half-finished canvas

and lines that still need to be coloured in.

Hang me in your living room, on display:

titled Woman is a Work in Progress,

titled I Am Made From Colours You Will Never See.

All these frequencies I carry—

they are made from me.