Reprime

I saw in you what I wanted to see

And I saw an artist

Who could fill the blank pages of me

I saw someone who could fill the void

I saw you for your potential

Ah, the delusive quality of potential

Led me to believe you were my Monet,

And just like that I became impressed

If you were an Impressionist,

Did that make me a Romantic

Quick to idealize your sloppy strokes

I wanted you to make me in your own likeness

Because if I let you, then you would have to love me

Right?

But that would imply you knew how to love right

So when I asked you what color I would be

Secretly, I knew your answer would reveal what you thought of me

Maybe you knew this too, though

Because you were quick to ignore my question,

Preferring to turn it into a lesson

About yourself

You said, “I don’t know about you,

But I would be purple”

I sat with this

Unsure how to respond,

But with the knowing that I was supposed to be impressed

The oppression of silence finally prompted a

“Hey, maybe me too.”

Through your duplicitous laugh you said

“Purple has a power behind it—

It’s too strong a color for you”

That’s when I knew

Maybe you weren’t my Monet

Because while you claimed regality,

In me you only saw fragility

Subconsciously, this I knew

But even that couldn’t stop me from coloring myself for you

The delusions of you consumed me

The delusions of what we could be

Sustain me

If you were purple I would make myself yellow for you.

A perfect complement

The more time we spent together,

The more yellow I became

Not like the Sunrise, though

Perhaps like one of the lesser stars

We used to look at

One that’s pretty and bright

But finite

No, I was yellow like an autumn leaf

A drifting, falling, and crumbling sort of yellow

The kind that succumbs,

The kind of yellow that quickly turns brown

As it’s walked over, but rarely considered

“Color me,” I implored

But you were already bored

I must’ve forgotten that complementary colors don’t mix

I ignored that we were not each other’s to fix

I made myself a blank canvas for you to paint

But you weren’t interested in making art

No, you’d rather sit on your purple throne and be the critic

I made myself yellow for your compliment

But it only drew out further complaint

Slowly, from your touch I withered and blanched

So maybe I’m not like the masochistic shade of yellow leaves and falling stars

Can I revert back to a blank canvas?

I’ll reprime myself

In your absence

I’ll paint myself for myself

The fault was not in you

But in me for depending on you to color me,

In me for assuming that I even needed you to paint me,

And in me for defaulting to complement you.

Regardless of all your regality and power,

You were intimidated by my mutability

I forgot that a blank canvas isn’t empty

It’s covered in possibility

Every color is already present all at once on the surface

Overwhelming with its contradictory everythingness and nothingness

Were you bored?

Or was that part of the purple facade, too