By Harshini Sre Palanivenkatesan
The color of,
White, past tense,
When I think of myself,
Not innocence,
Numbness pouring into my,
Soul,
Until the gnawing hunger,
Stopped,
Tears wouldn’t pour,
Like a leaky faucet,
Smiles wouldn’t come,
Unless my cheeks hurt,
From the straight line,
Plastered across my cheek,
Control,
The colour of white,
The color of,
Red, past continuous,
When my parents think of me,
My words daggered,
Like red ants,
A broken household,
Pleads they made,
My shaky hands,
And my zipped mouth,
When the scent of food,
Right in front of me,
Mountains they moved,
To fix me,
Anger,
The colour of red,
The color of,
Blue, future?
When my friends think of me,
And maybe even me,
Parties I skipped,
Triangle shaped pieces,
Cake and pizza,
Laughter would come easily,
Smiles not as fake,
Words would come,
And sorrow,
Wouldn’t coat my mouth,
And heart,
Blue,
The color of healed