old bleeding colors
onto my canvas, brand new
rocks crumble, fall down


I have a fascination with older women… Specifically, the ones with shoulder length tousled but not unkempt, gray hair. The ones who smell of incense, but still bathe. The ones with bright red circle frames resting on the tips on their regal noses.


As a child, I was the shy girl. I chose to hide behind my blond hair. It was safe, it was comfortable, it smelled of lavender shampoo.


I enjoyed observing, I enjoy observing.


For as long as I can remember, I’ve watched people… like an old person in a shopping center. I’ve studied their walking patterns, their physical appearances, the way they interact with others… Mostly though, I was imagining how happy they were, what unique qualities they must have possessed and how that was clearly, intimately linked to their value.


I’ve spent a lot of time watching, observing, and convincing myself that I needed to grow out my hair to be more feminine, to wear skinny jeans (but only the ones that make me look skinny), to eat kale, enjoy fiction, go to zumba, and paint my nails crimson. I do not enjoy any of those things, unless I feel skinny, then the jeans are alright.


We all do it… we compare, we judge, it’s human, right?!


It’s a waste of time, energy, individuality.


I like short hair, yoga, chipped nail polish, brownies, memoirs, haikus and if I wear jeans, the flare variety.

Recognizing that my value is not married to my outward characteristics. Giving rise to my colors, letting them bleed onto my canvas.

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