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RED PAINT

When I say my life was red paint, I mean it was no secrets. I mean it was afternoons spent on playgrounds  in front of watchful hazel eyes.  I mean it was a handshake  or a kiss on the cheek.  I mean it was swing sets and crisp autumn leaves.  I mean it was days when the sun set too soon.

When I say my life was an unfinished sketchbook,  I mean it was missed opportunities.  I mean it was growing up  and discovering and hiding. I mean it was first kisses and first dances and first loves. I mean it was loneliness. I mean it was secrets.

When I say my life was a scratched record,  I mean it was unexpected.  I mean it was car accidents  and warm hugs and burnt sugar cookies.  I mean it was an empty house and a guardian angel.  I mean it was love.

When I say my life is graffiti on lockers,  I mean it is things that I wish weren’t true. I mean it’s hollow denials and a damp pillow case. I mean it’s a hand on my shoulder and a knowing look reflected in watchful hazel eyes.  I mean it’s telling secrets to a stranger.  I mean it’s discovering things  that I’ve known all along.