You paint me out to be watercolor.

Not watercolor popsicles on a pale-yellow t-shirt
but rather, watercolor stars,
unable to see against the black sky.

You jump in my tide, when the waters aren’t strong.
As if that’s not the best part of me.
I wash the sand out from beneath your toes and you get mad.

You paint me red.
Hot tamale red when you know my favorite food is strawberries.

You paint me black.
Black into the ground like ashes.
Even though you know ash leaves me awake night.
And when I wake up burnt all I can think about is how you spent the whole
night painting me.

I traced the lines and soaked in the hues until
I had to stop letting you paint who I am on my bedroom walls.
And with my sore fingertips, I still bought
the piece that you painted me out to be.

All that it did, was leave me poor.

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