The world paints me colors
they say I fit their image
and claim I am niether more
The world is a swirling bucket of stains.
With their paintbrushes they slap me --
seeing only their own color.
"Hmmm... Green, yep, a soothing green,"
"So quiet and reserved;
never gets upset, just stays calm and in control."
so sunny and cheerful, bouncy and outgoing,"
"just a darling."
"Red, red as blood. MY blood,"
"Impatient and harsh,
her temper rises faster than the sun on a dreaded day."
"Violet. She's vibrant,
passionate, zealous, very emotional,"
they nod knowingly.
"Little things can crush her or give her wings."
That girl is never satisfied!"
"Nothing's ever good enough, especially herself."
"A tender indigo,"
they say thoughfully.
"Always compassionate and understanding,
she seems to feel others' pain."
"She's dark. I'd even say black,"
they state firmly.
"She has a fascination with death and torture,
and she insists upon being different; how rebellious! Stubborn! Wicked!"
"Orange is her color,"
"She is as bitter as an orange peel,
sarcastic and selfish."
"White and pure as the driven snow,"
they coo dotingly.
"So chaste and innocent,
holy, dedicated, and modest."
"Oh, she is brown!"
"She is one of us, a mixture of our colors maybe,
but essentially the same!"
I am not a saint.
I'm not a demon.
I don't fit their ideas.
My complexity is too strange for them.
I am too much for their parochial minds.
Sometimes I weep and other times I moan.
Often I laugh but also I scream.
It is utterly unbearable for me
to be shoved in a box with the top slammed shut,
slicing off whatever doesn't fit.
Why do they refuse to see all of me?
They just focus on what they wish to see.
But I don't fit any of their mass-produced categories.
When it is too much for me,
when I am frustrated
and my soul is torn to tatters by the struggle,
when I'm pulling out my hair and screaming with vexation,
crying tears of pain and rage,
I turn to my Jesus,
the only One who truly understands,
who actually knows me better than I know myself.
I plead with him desperately,
"who am I, God?
Are they all wrong --
or am I?"
And my Lover smiles gently.
"They are wrong, my precious one --
you are no earthly color,
for I have made you mine."
He sweeps me close to Him,
his everlasting arms close tightly, protecting me, healing, comforting.
"Fear not, my love, my dear one," he whispers.
"They cannot see you because you are not of them."
"You are less of any than you are of all.
Though the others can see those colors in you,
it's because you shimmer, iridescent.
Truly, you are my color number eleven,
and one day you will be recognized."
that was hard to type out, 'cause it's such old writing and it seems shitty to me, but it was a deep truth of my soul at the time, so please don't make fun.