My skin is dark, stained with the experiences of my short lived life. Thirty three is hardly young, but hardly old. Arms are brown, my feet too. Inked by the pain I have seen and the suffering I have caused, created and contributed to. Some of that brown is the colour of my adventures. To be one with the earth, to be one with you. To love and not be. To want and not have. To seek and continue to seek.
Surely, our bodies take on the colour of our lives. Mine does, it has and will continue to do so. A line divides my hands into brown and white, a stark contrast. My palms are white, callused I think, from writing, not working. They feel smooth to the touch, like white often does. There are spaces, at the elbows and behind my knees and above my collar bone. I think these are purple, bruises from physical hurt, caused by my innate gaucheness.
My legs are cream and long- it takes me a while to reach my dreams. I walk in the shade and a bliss that is surely caused by ignorance. Or stupidity. Or naïveté. Perhaps, all three and then some.
The shadow between my breasts is painted gold. How can that not be, write as I do, from my heart. I think love is probably painted gold. But also a deep blue. And romance is magenta and silver. And turquoise.
My back is smooth to the touch and there runs a line between my shoulder blade. It ends in a hollow at the base of my spine. The line that runs between my shoulder blades is curved, not bent. And this is important, because it means I have learnt to hold my head up high, more often than not. it is important because I am not the sum of my experiences, choosing instead to be who I am, despite them all. The line is curved, but strong. It is the colour of polished steel. Grey.
My hair carries the tints of many a bad decision and a few good ones. It is red, copper, brown and black. I have felt light caresses on my hair, so light, that it is almost imperceptible and it is only because I remember it every day, that I know it happened. The many streaks of silver in my hair remind me that perhaps, thirty three is, after all, old.
The colours that make me.
The trail that your fingers have left stain, ink, sear my skin. And it does not wash off easy. At all.
But then again, I haven’t really tried.
