Violet
It was easier for my three sisters,
dipping bare hands and splattering colors
across the white walls. My mother nudged me—
Go ahead, honey! Go wild! But this was
our room: we had to live in it. And art
was never easy. Not at eleven,
when paint felt like forever. Even now
I can see the deep violet fireworks
my mother flung onto the walls when I
proved too hesitant, so heavy they dripped
slowly in the dark that night while we slept.
Later she snuffed each one out with white paint
but my fingertips found them—there, still there—
like braille. A message I feel but can’t read.
Original header image by CreatureSH, courtesy Pixabay.