Picking Petals

There are canyons in the wrinkles of my leather journal

Pages turned green, I see a vast field of fruits and tall flowers.

The cells in their stems tell me what words I should write.

On most days, I feel pink but sometimes I feel yellow.

Yellow is thick silk sheets, wrapping me in my bedroom.

It is my peeling childhood wallpaper, eyeshadow palettes, and neon highlighters.

Yellow envelopes my entire being when I am excited, but when I write it gets hotter.

The color of stars, it bursts within a lightyear.

Yellow is the sun, my ancestors jaws, and the seeds of corn that I press into stone.

It turns into the tortillas I eat, the stains on my teeth, and the laughter I let slip.

I am a yellow bird, a droopy sunflower, and a glisten in the golden hour of pictures.

It reminds me of past pool floats, doll's hair, and the A+ on my paper.

Yellow is injectable, it comes and goes at free will.

I think I will always be yellow, next to a river, and thinking of times when someone passes in a breeze.

Others are also yellow, but it is a color shared for the world.

I am yellow #402938728.

The yellow petal picked by melancholy hands for new beginnings.