A heart from rose
When I was a little one, there was a feeling that did not quite have a name. I would describe it as if I was in a tiny square dark room, one that is drawn by a charcoal artist that liked keeping the edges a lot darker. Shadows I suppose, some may say they make the picture look a lot less lonely, and the room a little wider. I quickly learned about feelings and how you must know why you feel this way or that way, and fix it, as mom says. This feeling I could not quite fix. There was me in that charcoal drawn room, you could see inside my body, I had a heart. But a heart is supposed to be red, I was told. Mine was empty, a white one, maybe the artist erases it once in a while?
I feel it in the scenes of guilt over broken glass or when I feel so loved that I am scared the love will turn to dust.
One thing about the white empty heart, you can’t hold it or see it, but somehow, I knew it too well. I am scared. Today it took over me. I am not blue, not green. I am white.
A white that is scared like the last time, but calm for the first time.