Poets logo

Growing Down Through Colors

Martha Fleetwood Bradshaw

By Martha Fleetwood BradshawPublished 5 years ago 2 min read

They say when you’re born

you come out red and screaming

thrashing angry fists at the flickering fluorescent lights

and the hum of the hospital radiator

clenching and unclenching

ten little fingers and ten little toes.

That’s when your grow up

getting a little wiser with each passing moment,

milestones marking the road to adulthood.

But when I was born

I was born into the sky

screaming a dizzying tune

and twirling from one star to the next.

My hands smelled like nutmeg

my hair was made of gold

and when I laughed

diamonds bounced off my tongue

and spewed across the universe,

twinkling in colors that didn’t yet exist.

As I grew, I sunk down lower,

until I balanced on the rim of the milky way,

dipping my toes into the river of light

and watching the ripples draw themselves into limitless possibilities.

But when I jumped inside the shimmering pool,

I choked on the sweet water

and sunk down and down under

until I was grasping at nothing but a memory

of a glistening happiness

that oozed sunshine and cherry blossoms.

I fell on the back of a field mouse

which scurried and leapt across the clouds

until my head was light and hands chapped.

The mouse turned it’s furry face to me and said

“You have to wake up! You have to stop dreaming!”

so I put my face on his soft back and cried tears of hot chocolate

and when I tasted the bitter coco I winced

because I knew it needed more sugar

but there was none to be found

My fingers were slipping and my bones ached of fatigue

when I saw a rainbow

and jumped to it in morbid desperation

but when I landed it scorched my hands with words of disbelief.

It whispered ideas of impossibility, of doubt, of fear and regret,

and its vibrant colors faded as they sept into me.

The pessimism echoed throughout my empty mind

and I rolled off the rainbow

falling through shame

embarrassment

depression

until the grime embedded itself

into my every thought and emotion.

And I fell down and down and down

until I was all grown up.

surreal poetry

About the Creator

Martha Fleetwood Bradshaw

Enjoyed the story? Support the Creator.

Subscribe for free to receive all their stories in your feed.

Subscribe For Free

Reader insights

Comments

There are no comments for this story

Be the first to respond and start the conversation.

Sign in to comment
    Written by Martha Fleetwood Bradshaw