Unmixed

Rachael Hanley

Some days

I can pull it out of my chest

and look at it

like some extraterrestrial object.

 

I’ve melted all the colors of paint

to create my own shade of shame,

coating it

to papier-mâché the object in my hand.

 

All the blues

and the greens

and reds

and pinks

become lost

in the overarching theme

of what is only known to me—

 

to my heart,

to the object displayed in my hand.

 

Once something is mixed together,

how do I separate the colors on the wheel?

 

Beaten and bruised

is what I display

on the corridor of my malnourished bones.

 

Teeth gritting.

Constant spitting.

Hot showers.

Scraped flesh.

 

Naked

on asphalt.

 

Sea salt covers the ground.

 

Where are the corners of the room?

Where are the exits?

Where is the paint?

The ball in my chest?

 

Why can’t I see?

 

She’s screaming so loud—

the wind cushions my red.

 

My tongue tastes my blue.

Eyes see the green.

But you—

are the dull black

covering everything.