When this started I had no blood in my body. My skin was ashen grey and streaks of carbon; I had no colours and the world around me was pitch. Tar and soot and ink and coal. My first years were quiet and I knew nothing of people who wore colour on their skin or carried blood in their veins. But then one day, crawling through the bubbling tar, I heard your voice. It said my name. Not all at once, and honestly just a little wrong, but I felt heat and impulse jolting through my hollow bones at the first whisper. I saw in the reflections of oil-slicked black that blood, real blood, had tinged my paper skin. Every other restless soul, for a year after, looked at me like I was a fool for sitting at that break in the black, waiting to hear you say my name. Vines sprouted up, ivy, and moss, and by the time your voice filtered back through, id stolen every twinge of green from those plants. This time you came through with a crashing of tides, with metal beneath your voice, and all at once the colours took me. I could taste them on my tongue, cerulean divinities, and let myself be pulled under. When I surfaced with the roadmap of veins that scattered my skin, I found myself restless and wanting. Time and time again you would call out and time and time again I would be overcome by brilliance and hue that I never imagined until the world I knew was no longer a catacomb where nature stowed away its dismal and colorblind children. My world was a garden, a church to pray to the gods of viridian and chartreuse, of silver tongues and beating, burning, hearts. You said my name and it only took once for the world to spin on its side and for my restless bones to ache with purpose. You said my name and every colour Id never known illuminated, painting the world in watercolor.
Posted on: Sun, 05 Oct 2014 11:47:23 +0000
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