Lavender

I can’t remember the premise, or a druther,

but our class was asked to give hues to the other,

by a young, idealistic, drama class teacher,

to provide our first instinct of an indistinct feature,

As others looked on with impish uncertainty,

About this strange ask for a chroma pedigree,

I sat up to answer my ultimate calling,

To give answers to slow and uneasy stonewalling.

I alone had a color for each of my peers,

As my heart raced in response to cold-hearted jeers.

Panic and agony roiled my sensitive thoughts,

But a foppish boy was the target of their cruel plots.

“He's gay, call him pink and say it to his queer face!"

I was sixteen and in an unfamiliar place.

So I struggled to utter his longings out loud,

As I was easily influenced by a restless crowd.

It was my turn to speak and give him a soft shade,

I steeled my courage, my steadfast voice did not fade,

As the boy smiled at my poor pass at loyalty,

I pronounced him lavender, the color of royalty.

But the color symbolized his real character,

As confidence drove his calm, inner narrator.

He sat with his true colors, knowing who he was,

While all the other pubescent twats swirled around in mud.