“you’ve changed.”

digs itself between your ribs
gripped by the hands of someone
who had already painted their portrait of you
but then you came along and sprinkled
rose-colored glitter across your cheeks
dragged sky-blue painted fingertips
down the sides of your face
exhale deeply
dust off your hands
different looks like ghosts to some;
they don’t see people as perennial flowers, ones that
bloom in the summer, but wither by winter
only to bud again as something new in the spring
they assume autumn’s mess of orange and brown is the
end—
that things cannot be reborn
so clenched fists punch holes through canvas
leaving red-glittered knuckles and
spit that looks like teardrops
without considering that maybe blue
has always been your color