Colors I notice

Colors I notice

The sky—after orange, before black;

the blue the sky sinks into when the sun leaves the moon.

My eyes change from blue to green and sometimes even gray.

The gold around my pupils dictate how others see me:

A girl, fragile, and pretty.

I used to wear white dresses that blended with the clouds.

I’ve shapeshifted into curious things—a small, queer, genderless being.

When my mother and I sit next to each other,

I swear my thoughts transfer from my arm to hers.

My mother knows all my secrets in my dreams.

In a different reality, she invites me to dinner. She yells at me for

liking a trans boy, for kissing girls, and for not wanting to be one.

I see special plants in my dreams: light green moss that spreads across

the grass, and purple mushrooms that glimmer in the heat.

When I dream, my body is a flying-thing.

In one reality I’m older, freckled, and broader-shouldered,

I hover over my former self, Sonia: a girl in a white gown

who has yet to grow into me.

I sometimes feel shameful for knowing her, for sharing her body,

but in this dream, I kiss her. I guess I’m trying to learn to love

who I was even though I wasn’t myself.

I don’t have a favorite color, but I stay away from pink.

I’m privy to rainbows, because colors are for queers, somehow,

and I don’t have a favorite color, because I feel bad leaving any out.