Finger Painting

I paint my headstone in crayon
The kind you use when you are
Young and impressionable and
The sun always peaks in on the
Corner of the page, those kinds,
Do you remember them? I found

A packet in the two-euro store, I
Bought four so I could paint it blue
All the way around, the sides, the
Front and the back, I considered
Black but I thought it was a little
Mediocre for the message I was

Going for, you know, I don’t want
To bore. This is very important for
Those who don’t get it, for those
Who are living it, the black I mean,
Because I was once told black is the
Absence of colour and I didn’t believe

That until the colour ran out, a single
Tremor in my body and the light snuffed,
The light inside of my chest, the dull thump
Of darkness never ending began to beat
Anew. I wish I knew tunnels don’t always
Have an ending and paint doesn’t always

Come off the skin. Like tattoos. It’s not a
Thing that you can begin again. So when
People ask me if I’m white or tan or black
I can understand why because there is a
Rainbow on my skin hiding who I am, from
Foot to palm like camouflage, which is why it

Is very important that I paint this blue. It’s
My favourite colour and it’s my truth.


3 thoughts on “Finger Painting

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