Blue (alternatively titled: That Time I Was Foolish Enough to Believe Writing About My Feelings Would Help)

As a writer, it's incredibly frustrating to be colorblind. 




Robin's egg.

Teal, turquoise, 

indigo, cobalt, cerulean."

Words that would tell other people something - painting a vivid image.

Words on paper, meaningless letters scrambled and unscrambled together to try and tell me something that I can't know.

Words I'm constantly unsure of -- does my "blue" look like your "blue?"

Blue like the flowers that bloomed every morning in my front yard

Blue like the mailboxes on the corner of every street in town

Blue like the nail polish that chipped only a day after I painstakingly applied it (two coats)

Blue like the ocean

Blue like the sky

Blue like your eyes-- but no. 

Because no matter how hard I try, 

No matter how much I write,

No matter how long I stare,

it's unfair

that I still can't get the color of your eyes quite right. 


As a writer, it's incredibly frustrating to have this feeling trapped in my chest, 

Bubbling, hissing, fizzing and foaming -- 

coiling in my stomach,

sparking at my fingertips,

worrying my bleeding lips with nervous teeth,

pressing hard on my heart like a stress ball clasped in desperate times

---- when all I want to do is get it out of me. 

Feelings and I have never quite been friends.


As a writer, it's incredibly frustrating to look at you and end up compromising with myself that the only way to adequately describe you is "indescribable." 


A cop-out.

Inadequate. --me, not you. Never you.


As a writer, it's incredibly frustrating to think in complex colors that I can't see,

in conversations rehashed too many times that probably mean so much less than I sometimes indulgently let myself believe, 

in imagined dialogues that could never --

...won't happen,

for more reasons than I'd care to think about.

in late night --- early morning --- mid-day

"what-ifs," flashes, ideas, mights,

"could-bes," "please Gods"... 

feeling forever in a moment when for you it passes instantly

------- for me like passing kidney stones. 


You told me to write.

"Pick a topic: write about love;

it's easy to write about love."


You told me to write. 

"Find a time, a few moments here or there -

scrawl something down,

you'll feel better for it."


You told me to write

like it wouldn't keep me up at 2am,

sleepy frustration balling my fists against

the tired eyes I'm squinting,

writing myself into exhaustion.


You told me to write 

like I could ring out my soul, 

dribbling bits of my heart out on the page, 

fingerpainting my feelings -- 

messy and wet, staining my hands red

but something pretty from afar.


You told me to write 

like it would help me -- like it would help this;

You'd think I would know by now that draining a glass doesn't empty it completely, 

and never makes it clean.


You told me to write,

But I bet you didn't think 

I'd be writing




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