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Reclaiming Pink

and the mosaic of colors

By Sam Eliza GreenPublished 4 months ago 1 min read
photo by Živa Trajbarič on Pexels

Pink first lived

in a time

I could never admit

to owning,

before I realized

years weren't meant to be

off limits

even if their memories

destroyed the peace of ignorance.


I once assumed


for the hauntings of truth.


Grey was my

safety blanket

when nothing felt right,

and it often did

as I embraced

the weight of dullness

because emotion

and sincerity

seemed completely foreign.


Sometimes, I cried

for forgiveness

of a sickness that wasn't mine.


Black consumed secrets

so cosmically

that I could forget

we were constantly warring

with the shame

of betrayed vulnerability

and, instead, collected

the impressions of security

through bittersweet disconnect.


I learned to only

trust myself because anyone else

would ruin us eventually.


White was a lie

concocted to hide the mess

of a fragmented time,

blotted with confusion,

because childhood

came later for the same reason

we never imprinted

vibrant, finger paint smudges

across our own canvas.


I clung carefully to a dream

that we could simply wash away

unwanted histories.


Pink thrives now

in a mosaic of colors

that are finally allowed

to take root and bloom

without unloved discomfort

seeping through

the honeyed musings

of a playful soul

rightfully being reclaimed.

sad poetrysurreal poetrysocial commentaryinspirational

About the Creator

Sam Eliza Green

Wayward soul, who finds belonging in the eerie and bittersweet. Poetry, short stories, and epics. Stay a while if you're struggling to feel understood. There's a place for you here.

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  • Carminum4 months ago

    Just as time can be fragmented, severing the self from a part of its past as from a lost limb, there is also a shattered self in the present: one that disowns, hides or suppresses parts of itself. And here, too, the cure against a curation of colors is to accept the mosaic. This is how I related to your poem. I find that its language is at its most lyrical in the concluding four lines.

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