by Simone McMullen

I come from colors,
The colors red, purple, and yellow,
Colors that are printed on my mother’s face,
Engraved permanently,
Not physically but emotionally,
Generational curses,
Again, again, and again.

To see red,
If we couldn’t see,
Damp, blood-stained clothes,
Blood dripping upon the sink, floor,
Welts, uneven skin tattered,
Do I deserve this?
To not see red.

To see purple,
If we couldn’t see
The color behind evil, maliciousness,
Battered and bruised,
Covered by skin-colored paint,
Make up stories,
Do they actually love us?
To not see purple.

To see yellow,
If we couldn’t see,
A color acquainted with purple,
Not sunshine, friendship, or sunflowers,
But rather a depressing ore,
The color before the bruise finally fades,
That is upon its replacement,
Does this cycle ever stop?
To not see yellow.

What would it be like to not see colors for what they are?
Rather their impact,
Maybe if she didn’t see red, purple, or yellow,
Maybe if she were to be further domesticated,
Maybe if she were to abide . . .
Or . . .
Maybe if she were to thrive
Like the trees sprouted through the green depths of the
earth,
Maybe if she were to breathe

The fresh morning haze rather than blood,
Maybe if she were to believe,
Freedom at last for those who feel, hope, accept,
Maybe, just maybe,
This curse may be dismissed,
From her to me.

This piece was published in our 2025 anthology, Home and Away, by Out of the Woods Press.