I am the result of sleepless nights and roughened hands of my parents,


created from the many sketches and rough drafts before my arrival,


strung from the mind to the finger tips to the blank canvas of dark space,
`

I colored their strict black and white world,
I am their miracle.





Each part of me is a different hue, a different emotion.


From the vibrant yellow of happiness, an endless field of warm sunflowers,
to a splash of chaotic red, the roses and paper hearts I have given to enemies,
to the soft eerie blue of sadness etched into me,
the
same
color
as the skin of my baby brother on his open casket night,
choking away the heart-felt echoes of his laughter,
silencing his jingling, once warm but now cold, bell bracelet,
forever stealing his innocent smiles away from me.




So I layered myself with blotches,
trying to hide my mistakes that can’t be erased and the past events I can never change,
but my once bright pallet has now become a mesh of grey.
I continue to paint, but the colors seem to pale and dull.
Even with these fading colors, I have no choice; I must pick up the brush again,
and slowly,
with each stroke,
thicken my conviction.