Sound:

The hum of a patient amp
wraps around your moving lips
A silent symphony screams in my ears
but grows silent
as the clean ring of a guitar
flows from your dancing fingers

Dial up the gain
I can hear the toast crumbs
against chilling marmalade
hear the sing of smoke-ridden lungs
with the crisp chirp of an early bird.

Touch:

Callused taps
steel strings warmed
from fleeting fingers sliding up
and down the brisk wooden limb
waking up from its slumber.

Soft groove of a joystick
sweaty plastic buttons
you were the exciting buzz
that vibrated in my palm
when I hit that combo

When the nights get too long
and my heart gets too heavy

and nothing but regret and indifference
remains;

I pray for the twinkling spots in the sky
and the pale capsules in my palm

to take me
away.

I'm sorry my bones are fragile,
breaking from the touch of your voice.
I'm sorry my tears burned your delicate skin,
and sorry if my screams broke your ribs.

I'm sorry I ran away,
away from your charcoal claws.
I'm sorry I house a broken body
and tore my cracking heart.

I'm sorry I fought off the darkness in my veins,
but too tired to fend off your demons.
I'm sorry I was the one who carved your scars
and squeezed your creaking lungs.

I'm sorry for saying "I'm sorry."
I'm sorry for believing that phrase
can heal bullet wounds,
and align planets.

My name is Yellow.
As in the skin I bare,
and the heart beneath.

Yellow,
like the perfect grades,
and the failing student.

Yellow,
like the title stripped from my father,
and the title he wishes to strip from me.

Yellow,
unlike the parents,
and the silent daughter.

My name is Yellow.
And I am proud.