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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is more of internal ramblings than it is a poem but I wasn't sure what else to put it as because there isn't a genre for 'prose', which I am feeling personally attacked over! Probably unreasonably but in all honesty, that's my specialty and I'm going to stop talking now because nobody really reads these anyways lmao they're like the terms and conditions. God, I make myself chuckle

EDIT: This probably makes a whole lot more sense to me and I'm sorry if someone is reading this and is getting confused. Yellow is a very important color, don't ask why, I really don't know. And the Shakespeare quote is also just as important to me. I'm just gonna go, bye

Submitted: December 13, 2016

A A A | A A A

Submitted: December 13, 2016



Once I spent five hours reading about color theory, it's some interesting stuff. Five whole hours learning all about yellow. About color theory, the theory of colors. Of how colors change people, change situations. Colors can make you feel things, think things.


Van Gogh ate yellow paint. I can't tell if I am saddened by the knowledge that he thought it would make him feel on the inside what it looks like on the outside. Maybe yellow curtains are my yellow paint. Maybe if I get enough of them, hang up enough of them, maybe then I'll be able to paint the walls of my bedroom the colors of my apologies. Of the words I want to say but don't because it feels like there's a steel knife in my windpipe.


In Japan, yellow is the color of courage. Yellow is the color of standing up, of kissing him in the busiest street corner in my town; press our lips firmly together. Yellow is the color that his name is when I write it on paper. I know because I have tried - I've seen it. Yellow is the way his face lights up like the sun.


Yellow is the sun and I am impossibly burning when I touch him. Burning when I stand near him. Burning, burning - it is the East, and he is the sun. He is the sun.

He is the sun and I am Icarus, flying too close. I am Icarus, fashioning wings out of broken promises and half wishes and yellow curtains and –




I remember how to breathe. I breathe throughout everything, every moment. Every manic episode and every low. I am breathing. On average, people breathe between 17,000 and 30,000 times a day.

I am breathing and I am thinking.



I think about my life being like a film a lot. Sometimes, I think about what would happen if the movie ended. What would happen if the screen were to fade to black, cue the end credits, let the music reach its crescendo? Sometimes I think: maybe you're an actress.

Maybe I'm someone else. Maybe I step out of my bedroom and I disappear. I melt through the floorboards and my body is left standing there, in another world. Another universe, one of his infinities, except it's an infinity without me.


Look at your hands, I think. And I do.

I have twelve fingers. Maybe I'm not real.


This is what I was talking about, back then - back when my bed was a boat and I was sailing soft, forget the storm out to sea, focus on the now. He was my anchor, my sail, my captain. Forget that. Now, this is what I was talking about. This is the bad response to the infinity - this is the alone in my head. This is stuck, on my own, this is –





Get stuck in the void in my head, in my mouth, in the space between my thighs. Not the real void but a fake kind. A Donnie Darko thunderstorm void and the plane is crashing into my room because of all the yellow, yellow, yellow.



Maybe this is Alice's adventures in wonderland and I've fallen down a rabbit hole, and maybe he is the cake that says eat me. Maybe I've been consuming all the things I live for years. Maybe I feed off the people around me; pull their skin off like wrapping paper and gorge on their insides because I can't survive on my own flesh.

Maybe I am the Cheshire Cat, all teeth and claws. Nothing but the moon to guide me. Maybe I'm the color purple, deep and rich and the color of a punch. Maybe I've been knocking out his teeth since the moment we met. Gathering them under my pillow and waiting for the reward of his head next to my own.


Except –

No, scratch that.


When I look down at my fists, I see only frayed edges of ribbons. I don't want to fight and keep fighting. I want to be calm, and soft.



But soft, but soft, but soft –


But soft, what light through yonder window breaks? It's still the East and he is still the sun - and I am still the Cheshire Cat moon. I am Romeo and I'm climbing up a balcony to listen into thoughts that I was never invited to. I am burning my hands on the heat from his bones.


I tried to be the director of my own life. I am trying to be the director of my own life. I look in the mirror every morning and I kiss the glass with red lipstick that looks stark against my too pale, sunken skin and I say: action. And I think about all of my actions and my moments and I'm trying so hard to decide what happens next but directors aren't obsolete. Sometimes films make it to the box office before they crash and burn and sometimes she feels like a critic that is giving me a 1% for a movie that I spent my whole life working on. For a movie that is my life. For my life, my breath, my bones. For everything I gave to her and everything I can't give to her.



I don't want to get angry, but sometimes I am so mad. Sometimes I want tear the walls of world down like tissue paper, peel the skin from my wrists and let my flesh fall like a piece of clothing - like the skin of an orange, left to rot in the sun.


I am Icarus and I am crashing and the sea is below me and I am about to get swallowed up and the ocean is six miles deep (good!) and I can feel it all pressing down on me from above and he is on the surface, watching and –


I am alone.

In my head.


I am trying to tell him about the water - I'm on the Titanic and the ship is sinking and I am ready! I am so ready to form the words but the water is so cold and I feel like fluid. Like I'm spilling. And he's a better swimmer and she is on a lifeboat and everything is drifting.








But soft. But soft. But –



Soft what light through yonder window breaks? No light. No light. The yellow curtains aren't yellow, they're blue and they are too thick.

No light.

There is only blackness here.

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