But I still keep on coming back to the yellow.

I like it but I don’t know why,
and someone once said a similar thing about me.
Nothing perfectly matched,
everything on a whim.
“You don’t follow conventions, I’ve always admired that about you.”
All I’ve ever wanted was to be like everyone else.

It’s pencil on paint,
childhood tools in an adult world.
Her mouth is smudged,
not fully formed, not fully finished.
It reminds me of my own,
or maybe I’m just reading too much into it.

I think I can see a face,
an eye, a nose.
But I’m no longer sure what is up and what is down,
where the ocean ends and the sky begins.
It’s pink and it’s red and it’s blue and it’s green.
Mum always told me it’s the hope for things unseen.

There is sunshine in the middle,
but it’s surrounded by confusion,
red and brown and black.
Is organised mess still mess?
I know exactly in which nook my favourite shirt is,
even though you can’t see the floor in my room.

They say beauty is in the eye of the beholder,
but sometimes you’ve got to really squint to see it.
If I squint,
I see a woman.
With my eyes wide open,
it’s just a mess of colours, shapes, texture.

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