When I was 16, and so young
I said my favourite colour was blue
because I did not know that there were
other types of girls, and that it was OK
to be different.

On a school trip then, we hiked
several mountains up, too close to the skies
and I tasted the stars, shimmery and sweet,
As against others of my age
Who were busy
With shimmering skin and fancy clothes.

Nectar sweet, devouring
every inch of my being, I felt the weight
of a million worlds, constellations that crissed-crossed,
always crossed, star lovers.
Unable to guess that the stars would take me to someone important.

Now, at 22, a close of decade later,
I say, I’m sorry I never understood you better.
I did not know, then, that there were
other types of relationships,
and that it was OK.

But I now understand you,
in ways I don’t know how to articulate,
and it’s taken me quite a few years, of burning,
of almost dying, of imploding,
of spinning without knowing,
to know
that my childhood books spilled honest lies.

Now, I know
exactly where we are
in the universe, and it is full
of stray thoughts and
loose ends.

But I do not know, yet
how to express
myself. How to do this, because it is not Math,
it is not a constellation,
it’s a rainbow..
Merged sequences.

and I know now, that blue
is a warmer colour. I know now
that it is OK,
but OK is not quantifiable,
not justifiable
for who I, simply, am not.