I make too much noise
trying to prove I’m not alone.
I light little fires in the rain
so someone might see me.
The universe answered,
but I thought it would be louder,
a crack of white light,
a door flung open.
But the answer came
in soft colors.
The grey before crying.
The dark bruise-purple
when my heart is tired
of performing for survival.
And the green ache of wanting
to begin again.
But everything I need
is intuitively inside me.
Not a blazing sign,
or map with red circles.
Just a quiet yes,
a quiet no.
Intuition doesn’t shout.
It arrives like a hand
that holds you back from the brink
of abandoning yourself just to be chosen.
I’m so tired of
abandoning myself.
I’m tired of turning neon
for those who love the brightness,
but never read the sign.
I’m tired of painting
my loneliness
in colors others can tolerate.
Finding connection
was never about
becoming impossible to miss
with red urgency,
or a gold star for performance,
or being bright enough to hurt
my own eyes.
Those meant to be
will recognize the
blue of my sincerity,
green of my healing,
violet of past sorrow,
and the gold that still believes.
I’m learning to sit
in the dark
without accusing it of
being empty,
that silence is the universe
saying listen closer.
Inside there is a door
I’ve walked past for years,
a lantern I keep
mistaking for hunger
to be seen.
But connections meant to be
won’t need me to
explain my colors.
Chestnut Cowboy 