People ask me about the color of my hair,
but they don’t care—why would they? —
about the color of my thoughts.
People ignore the pink-copper hues of my ideas—
gondolas gliding through my brain;
they don’t see their turquoise blue shades—
paper boats caught in a vortex.
People ask me about the shape of my eyes.
They won’t ask—not if I beg them—
about the shapes of my feelings.
They won’t inquire about
my hopes—round and furry—like coconuts,
or about my fears—angular and sharp—broken rocks.
Take my anxiety—I could cut a watermelon with it.
People ask about the taste of my food,
but not once will they ask
about the taste of my voice,
when alone, in a hammock at dusk.
Is it caramel-sweet, with a peppermint tang?
Or is it salty and tender,
like a freshly cooked trout?
People ask me what music I like,
but they’ll never ask, not in a million years,
what is the sound of my body.
Does it crunch to my pace
louder than the sand underfoot?
Does it hum a sweet lullaby
when I read a romance novella?
People are curious about the fabric of my clothes,
but they don’t wonder
about the texture of my dreams.
Are they bubbly and sparkling
like a bottle of wedding-day champagne?
Or are they smooth and soft
like whipped cream topping a funeral cake?
People ask all the wrong questions—
but what do they know!
Photo by Michelle Seixas from FreeImages
