Red

The boy in the dress

That is a boy in a dress.

That is a very pretty dress, 

but it is a boy that is wearing that dress.

The boy that likes other boys

That boy over there likes other boys.

That boy is kind,

but that boy likes other boys.

No.

That is no boy.

That thing over there is no boy.

That is a monster.

A disgrace.

A failure.

no 

He is not a monster.

He is not a disgrace.

He is not a failure.

He is gay.

And he is me.

I am him.

I am.

image by Pixabay

Orange

“Happy birthday to you…”

“Make a wish!”

We were jumping in his jumphouse,

And we kept jumping in his jumphouse

Until our energy was all gone

Until he himself was gone

He had a fire in him that seemed

To never extinguish

But not everything

Is what it seems

Now I am standing in black.

We are all standing in black, with bright orange flowers that flick in the wind like flames.

I am clutching onto the keychain he had gifted me so long ago- the one of the green lady with the torch. He was my Statue of Liberty for all these  years, and now, this key chain would be the only light to guide me, for he is gone… gone before his wish could come true, his wish to live for just one more month. 

But no, it would never come true. 

Cancer is a cruel man. 

For because of him,

my best friend has died.

Gone to cancer on your birthday,

may you rest in peace, Collin.

image by Pixabay

Yellow

Grandpa had a heart attack

———————————–

Mom, how is Grandpa?

He is gone Quinton, Grandpa already left.

He is gone.

He is gone.

———————————–

Why does he look like that?

That’s what dead people look like Quinton.

Why is his skin so yellow?

When people die their blood stops circu…

I was numb. Grandma had survived strokes, had survived numerous falls, and survived a war. But in the course of 7 months, his health would suddenly take a downwards curve to death. He was stronger than me just a year before, but suddenly, he was dead. 

But he didn’t look the same, he didn’t look like my Grandpa. My grandpa had rosy cheeks and a joyous smile. He had dark brown eyes that always squinted alongside his pearly white teeth. That man in the hospital bed looked weird. His eyes were gray, glassy with a slight blue hue. His skin was a hideous yellow, like turmeric. His mouth did not smile, it gaped open. Grandma had to hold his jaw up to keep the integrity of his face, for he was no longer alive to keep it together. He did not look like Grandpa. He was not Grandpa. Grandpa is not dead.

He can’t be.

image by Pixabay

Purple

Grandpa and Grandma told me to never wear purple. They made me almost hate the color purple. I would never tell them that I liked purple, for they would yell at me to never even dream of wearing anything purple, owning anything purple, touching anything that was purple. For purple was the color of flowers, the flowers at a funeral. It represents the darkness of death, and it shall never be present in our home. 

I went outside to play with my friends. I danced in their garden. I danced until the sun set, until the moon showed in my eyes. I could not see what was around me. Soon I fell asleep in the patch of flowers as midnight came, and awoke to myself lying with a flower in my hands. 

A purple flower.

I ran back home with tears streaming down my eyes. I opened the door. Everybody was in black, except for grandma- she was in white. Grandpa had always wanted Grandma to wear white to stand out if he were to ever die, the Saint Laurent gown embezzled with crystals he had loved. So everybody except me, Grandma, and Grandpa were in black.

So when everybody left, it was just us three.

A bouquet consisting on three flowers-

One in white, and the other two in purple.

image by Pixabay

Pink

I grew up always “too girly”. I loved dresses. I loved high heels. I loved lipstick and lipgloss. I loved Disney princesses. I was my grandma’s shadow- decked out in luxury and class, I was nearly her splitting image, visually too. We both have round faces, brown hair instead of the common black. The smell of our perfume- either J’adore, Cashmere Mist, Gardenia, or Beige- the perfume was one of my identities. The image I grew up in was my identity. Until I became too old to be interested in these things. 

I was cute when I would dress up in princess dresses in preschool, but when I got to 1st grade, it was weird- my parents bought me a cologne from Lacoste. I didn’t like it. But I smiled and pretended like I did. I much preferred perfume. But perfume is for girls- cologne is for boys. 

I always loved playing with dolls. I loved dressing them up in a dress I made myself with ripped up Bounty paper and Charmin’s toilet paper. Eventually, they told me to stop playing with dolls at my cousin’s house. They gave me a nerf gun and an iPad, until I was too aggressive in battles and spent too much time online. But either way, it was better than playing with dolls- I was not allowed to be seen with Barbies at all, I would get yelled at. Playing with Barbies are for girls, guns and video games are for boys. Perfume is for girls, cologne is for boys. 

I was different from the other boys- I am too girly

image by Indiana State Library