A Nightingale to Paint the Walls

I started in Ohio.

But I lived in seven different houses growing up. When I was ten, I cut up magazines. Put people on my walls with scotch tape. I woke up jaded and tore them all down. Tired of eyes that didn’t know me.

On my eighth bedroom, I painted the walls dark purple and held tears in my throat for the first time. I wish I painted it bright. Covered the walls in ivies. Opened the windows so a nightingale could come inside. A small, sweet one with a song like my own. Maybe I would feed him sandwiches or dust the driveway with chalk.

Listen, the rain mixes us together.

He would sing to me. Do not drift around muted. Eat the yellow, the blue!

The soothing burn of the tightness in my throat, holding my tears back. He told me he wanted to taste my tears.  

• LIFE STORY
• lifestyle
• poem