through paper fields

i would not admit that in this house

in this family we were all poets

all playwrights

all writers.

i was going to be different.

i would not enjoy weaving words together

i would not be like my mother

be like my father

be like my siblings

who spent hours quilting words to lay and dream upon.

and yet, I found myself speaking without color

watching as these wisps

sank in the thick robust hues of others’

and settle on a blank field of paper.

at night I’d empty myself into this field

the bright white of the unsaid softening the dark.

and that was White

pretty breaths of air

feeling not yet birthed into words

feeling birthed but mute

it was staring at the belly of a eucalyptus

eating tofu and wondering if it had flavor

smelling the scent of star jasmine and gagging

going to See’s just for the peppermint

just for the feeling of eating something that felt inedible

felt like crumbling a cliff in my mouth

felt like slipping off an equestrian trail

felt like maybe the death of a meteorite

right between the white of my teeth and pink of my tongue I used to write.

and I used to admit my love for white

toilet white, notebook notetaking white, Tylenol headache white

glass upon glass upon glass foggy white.

the wallflower of colors

the color people said wasn’t a color

and maybe the reason why I loved it.

like me against the wall

me the absence of color

me just a waiting canvas

me just a blank thought

me—

once a little girl that dreamt of snow

grew older

then dreamed of hail

and awakened just before the yellow of a dandelion blew into wishes

watched as the tufts of white floated up to heaven

wanting just to love, wanting just to

kiss the color off her lips

wanting just to stare at the white of her eyes

and smile

and smile

and smile

as I do when snow falls

as I do now

believing she is full of snow

staring as if she were flurries in a desert

staring like I might not ever blink again

so, I don’t miss when she is spring and is a flower garden

when the sun is so high it’s white

when she is every color and all I see is light

when in summer she is a night tide unfurling and unfurling

swathes of moonlight for her to dream in.

and sometimes, all at once, she is snowfall amidst a sea storm

with branches of blooming dogwood waltzing with its waves.

it is in these moments I do not envy painters’ hands

or wish for their color theory

i am content with the hue of paper

i am content knowing that all I know are words

words that do not color

until they wed themselves to the white of the page

a portrait of words

a portrait of____