I Am Made Entirely of Rainbows

Bruises blossomed like a watercolor rainbow of gentle

pinks easing into fuchsia and deep magenta, pale blue

erupting into wild indigo with feathered edges of green.

I didn't understand, but how could I? I was a child.

***

He had the hands of an artist, a smile that lit the room.

His eyes, blue as the sky, were as dead as mine were livid

that day, as I screamed at them to leave him alone, leave 

him alone, but they wouldn't stop. They hurt him.

***

Good old boys our papas want us to love, the jocks and

football players with their cheerleader girlfriends, boys

with so much potential and who was I to tell boys like

that anything, much less to stop. He was my friend.

***

Prejudice and hate lived long before the internet or

hash tags and the nurse gently tended the cut on the

officer's hand while the young gay man he'd beaten

quietly died alone in the next room. It wasn't him.

***

But still, in the wee hours of night I find myself painting

a rainbow; pinks easing into fuchsia and deep magenta, 

pale blue erupting into wild indigo. He would have

smiled about the glitter. I don't know where he is.

***

Bruises fade faster than memory and I can still see his

smile, feel the quick hug as he whispered be well and

disappeared into yesterday. I hope he found a place

where no one cares who he loves. I miss him.

***

The sun shines in a sky as blue as his eyes and I am

surrounded by balloons and streamers, hugs and pride

flags. With glitter on my shirt and colors in my hair I

am made entirely of rainbows. His name was Ian.