The Color of Thought

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Memoir  |  House: Booksie Classic
We ignore and we don't think.
And if we think, we barely do.
Maybe if we colored ourselves in thought,
Maybe if we thought rather than jump,
Maybe the world would be better,
Maybe if we thought...
But we don't. And we won't ever.
PS: I decided to write the ending of my poem as the description. You can read my whole poem in my wattpad: Justwanttowrite12. ;) lemme know what you think.

Submitted: April 03, 2016

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Submitted: April 03, 2016



A few months into the first semester of my school year, I was sitting with two of my friends, Potato Eva and Female Potato Bob, in our usual linger spot at the school. They were a squared function of eclecticism. Nothing compared to Queen Eclectic, me, but they were the closest I knew. Bob was painting her nails pitch black, like my soul. She randomly asked "Can I paint your nails?" I looked at the nail polish, didn't think twice and said "If you want."

I kept complaining with Eva about the Pretty Little Liars most recent season finale as Bob painted my nails. For this reason, I wasn't vigilant to what Bob was doing, so when Bob was done, I was profoundly saturated with awe. I loved how they looked and the way the polish embroidered my hands, making it less boring. The black nail polish shone. It almost felt whimsical. I couldn't help but laud, adulate, and thank Bob. It was irrefutably fervent for me.

My day was thriving into extreme happiness because of my nails. It was awesome. People did stare at my hand like I grew an extra finger, but that was trivial.

My nails were too amazing to give any relevance to the stares anyway so I stayed aloof to them. It was like finding a piece of me I never knew existed. They were slavish, since Bob wasn't very meticulous with my nails. However, I loved that too. Although, what I loved most about them is how different they made me feel. There's a beauty in what's different, a beauty I can't define... but felt.

The day sluggishly reached it's maximum value. I was sitting down with Kitty, a parable of infinite eclectic cat coordinates. She glanced at my nails. "Of course." She laughed but also adulated them. The cordial bolster she showed made me audaciously happy. It also made me even more proud almost to the point of being pretentious, but not quite there.

"What about your mom though?" Kitty asked.

I then remembered how tentative happiness can be. My whole body lost its energy. I was tenaciously obtuse. My mom would never validate my feminine behavior. And it makes total sense. People with ovaries are the only people who can paint their nails, because they have ovaries. It's the same reason girls get paid less for doing the same job boys do. Girls have ovaries, therefore, they can't bet treated equally. Equality wouldn't make sense.

I still loved my nails. I wanted them to stay. However, it's wrong. Mother already taught me it's wrong just like making hand gestures and being flamboyant. It's not correct if I have sperms, but I love my nails. However, they make me viable for castigation.

I entered the bathroom and scratched off the nail polish. Remains were left, but I left my pinky's nail painted. I knew it was wrong, but it felt right.

I tried to not think about my nails for what was left of the school day by keeping myself wary and my agenda itinerant. I substituted my disappointment with work.

My mom picked me up from school. We made small talk like usual. However, she noticed the one nail painted. Subsequently, she asked with a tone of disbelief "What is that?"

I stuttered, not able to find an explanation that would avoid a pedantic scolding.

"Why would you do that?" she exclaimed,


"Are you retarded? Do you need help?"

"I just, my friend painted them-"

"You have to have a problem. I gave birth to a retard!" My eyes started to tear up as my chest and stomach knotted together inside me. The turmoil opened like a parable and exploded everywhere like the radius of a circle. I wasn't adept for this.

"Maybe your friends are not good for you." She indicated. My blood boiled. The axis intercepted a thin line of anger. For some reason, this was the most insulting remark she had recounted. It was the one that made me hardy and turned my melancholy into a quadrilateral figure of anger.

"My friends have NOTHING to do with this." I stated.

"Then what the hell is wrong with you?! Do you want to be gay? Do you want to be a girl? Wanna buy a wig, a plastic vagina!?" she kept talking as I turned my face side to side. I began tolerating the slaps since I disrespected her by answering back.

"Is this because you like rock? You're going to be a dope head rocker. Is that it?" I kept turning my head side to side, trying to tolerate all the slaps.

"I just, I liked them. They made me happy.-"


I felt like exploding into lines all over the quadrants of the Cartesian Plane. A lump in my chest and throat persistently poked at my skin. I kept trying to tolerate the slaps. Kept tolerating. Kept tolerating.

"REPEAT IT! Men have sperms." She demanded.

"Men have sperms."

"You have sperms. And you don't paint your nails like a retard. I will NOT accept that under MY roof"

"Okay." Kept tolerating. Kept tolerating.

I didn't notice we had arrived home or, accurately, my house, not home. I instantly locked myself in my room. My face felt wet. The tears burst out without my okay after entering my room. The ten to fifteen slaps were consistent but they weren't what hurt.

"It made me so happy. Why is it so wrong? Why?" I had never thought like this. It made no sense. Ovaries and sperms and nail polish. None of this correlated with each other. However, I realized something much more important. That dreadful moment in the dark of my locked room, I realized I had never thought like this... because I had never thought... 

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