You do not define my colors, or how I see my eyes in the mirror. You don't pull the corset laces to fit me into your ideal waist size; you don't take my brush and smudge out my imperfections. I'll paint the sky and show you who I really am. I'll dip the brush onto my tongue, write the words in the clouds that I've wanted to say since I could formulate screams on my baby lips. I am not the sun, but you are not the moon; how can you hail higher than I when you are still standing on the ground? Can those who are mighty sprout crowns from their heads like a baby bird grows the feathers on its wings? Do jewels fall from your mouth like your voice is worth more than Mitus's gold? Do the branches of the trees fall to their arches as you pass them by? If you are so, then please, take my hand and paint me red with all the things you are that I'll never be.