Colorblind

Whoever made you,
touched you with such artistry
that the melanated strokes and the
curves of your essence
swayed me to be your muse.

Though not a blank canvas,
I stripped myself bare for you.

The grace in which
you took from me

            and took from me,
then flung it around like child's play
caused me to question your methods,
but I assumed you had the vision.

My trust riddled your fingertips and
fell between the spaces

as you spread them thin

to dress the image of me.

When you grabbed a handful of my yellow,
you said you needed to borrow my light.
But to borrow means one day,

You'll give it back, right?
            You stole my yellow.

You gave me blue.
To correct the smudges

made in careless haste

and the way I was a little too full

around the waist,
            you painted me the color of sobriety.
And I felt what it was like to go cold turkey
when you stopped the progress so abruptly.
            You put me aside to dry

as you worked on other projects.

I thought it was abstract,
when in fact,
your masterpiece

was part of your master plan.
Where in the end it wasn't me, you wanted
            but another man.

You borrowed his colors, too,
but assured me that mine were richer,

a deeper hue.
He was easy, and I was concrete.
A different medium, a different treat.
Which explains why the primary colors

of red, blue, and yellow
fit your mold more than

the colors you combined in me.
"Too complex," you said.

"I like easy."

You chose to stick with the guided simplicity of the coloring book.
And the depth of finger paint.
You didn't want to tackle larger feats.
            You didn't want to handle me.

And so with the same paint I gave to you,
            you offered it to him.
You stuck his brush into my paint

on a whim.
My yellows tainted with darker colors,

and the reds were not as sharp,
but it's hard to retain your vibrancy

            when you're forced to love from afar.
My blues faded, too,

and my greens weren't the same
because when you think of who you love,
            you think of his name.

I'm reimagining myself

through a different lens
and in this one,

            I'm green.
And I will grow

            from the dirt you left me in.

But it's no fault of yours,
it's a fault of mine, see,
that's what I get

            for trying to love you blindly.

When someone shows their true colors,

            never try to repaint them.

Yet I tried you in red,

            when you wanted blue.
The pinks and purples

            weren't good enough for you.
Orange and yellow never quite matched,
but not even black or white could capture

the dimple when you smile

or the little tattoo,

just by your eye,
I swear to God,

            loving you was colorblind.

Because I ignored the way you came back
            purple

when you'd left,

            blue.
And I knew of all the colors,

his red was sitting across from you.

And I wish it was just sex to me,
            because to me, it felt like love.
It felt like love
when you used a different, softer brush
            to borrow some of my pink.

Even then,
I kept wishing I'd given you more of me.

But I guess you forgot

to put the cap back on,
didn't twist it quite tight enough.
Because that same place

where you borrowed from me
            was left to decay and dry out.
The prior reds and purples

            are now black and brown.

And then you painted over me in white.
Created a little, then changed your mind.
To erase,
to start over,
            but I am still here.
And you ripped the brush from my hands.
But now I guess I could thank you.
I would've spent ages trying to repaint you.