Yellow.
I could feel the heavy brush strokes in my belly,
Caressing my insides and telling them things i would never remember.
All around me there were yellow things.
People, cars, events, feelings, moments.
My mind raced at a million miles, faster than light to decipher the yellow.
I spent months, my fingers flicking through flapping pages of books,
Searching for something, and all i could remember was yellow.
And then i knew that yellow was the color of forget,
The color of your heart when a hand strikes down at you,
The colour of your parents divorce. The colour your parents divorce.
The colour of re doing your 1st year
The colour of poverty.
So i crawled into my cupboard and wrote notes on the walls
Thick yellow markers in my hand like a gun at a rally.
I shouted the the words and lists, the names of people and places,
And they stuck to my wall like a bad habit
Like a cancer in a heart box.
I wrote lists of countries i would never dare go to,
The people would never accept me, and so i refused to accept them.
Because that somehow made sense to me.
I could justify hating someone, because i felt that they would hate me.
And i slowly turned yellow.
I wrote down the names of people i felt i never wanted to run into
I shouted their names and saw their faces disappear from my mind in yellow.
Never once considering their faults,
Their issues.
I removed them from my life, and the lives of others with my erratic writing,
I cut the electricity of my body until i was nothing but a spark hidden in a corner,
a small static boy trying to hide from the things i could not cover in yellow.
My markers turned to brushes,
And the fumes of the paint entered my lungs and eventually i had a heart so broken i could not remember all the pain, because i turned it all yellow.
And my infected flesh fell aways in generous proportions every time someone breathed,
The movements i could only feel, was breath.
The places i could not remember, was breath.
The people i had removed without a second thought, without so much as wondering if they too needed a yellow marker, was breath.
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nobody talks about the fact that you can have all this crazy shit in your head, and want to open up and talk about your feelings but no matter what, you just can't make out the right words and properly put your thoughts and emotions into words
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— Thanksgiving 2006, Ocean Vuong, from 'Night Sky with Exit Wounds'
[text ID: Brooklyn's too cold tonight
& all my friends are three years away.
My mother said I could be anything
I wanted — but I chose to live.]
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