synesthesia
We feel in colors
painting ourselves in pigments,
sometimes sinking into oceans of sadness,
submerging ourselves in the blue-gray Atlantic,
familiar, cold, and rocky.
We blaze crimson,
a slow candlelight burn,
tempted to touch the flame,
but careful not to get too close.
We catch fire quick,
engulfing ourselves in scarlet,
the type of anger that only results from wounding something delicate.
We smolder until we are ash,
devoid of our color,
the complexion of bitterness,
but there are pieces of us in the charcoal
and what remains provides a natural habitat for hope,
for the regeneration of trust.
We grow in green
because when we were young and naive, the teachers made us recite “Trees”
and then sent us home with tiny seedlings,
our little hands clutching onto our big dreams.
We learn that love is golden,
so we put teaspoons of honey in our tea,
and glaze ourselves in the warmth of the sunset,
it frees us of our sharp shadows,
so we can embrace our soft spirits.
