"oversleeping" poems - Hello Poetry

The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs. Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap, It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket. My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me, ******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil, Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing, Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand. "Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds Horrible," She had told me. "I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff," She said, The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies. I tried to explain, but I was swamped in Confusion. "Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered...... And pansexual people like all of those genders." "That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds. I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes, Not able to explain the way I don't care what you identify as, I only care about love. My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed. My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed. My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist, Or know that I find all of them attractive. But she had already dropped the subject, Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school. I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips, Pink and yellow and blue, I wanted to tell her to stop and listen. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, And to be accepting, And to try to understand. I wanted to tell her 'I'm pansexual. There. Now you know. Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand? That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?' But I didn't. I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds, The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods. She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest As she opens her eyes. She mumbles quietly about oversleeping Before she rushes out the door, Leaving behind a daughter She thinks she knows, As she claims to not understand My label That I have hidden inside my closet door, Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves. Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on, Pin my heart to my sleeve, Wear my colors proudly. But not today. Never today.

0

Jul 9, 2014

Jul 9, 2014 at 7:35 PM UTC

CheshireCat92

My Colors

The yellow, early evening sun feels heavy and warm on my legs. Like a cat curled up to enjoy a small nap, It rests on my pink and rainbow blanket. My mother snores in the old blue chair next to me, ******* in worry and exhaustion and the scent of basil, Oblivious to the small-town sounds of birds and cars and children playing, Unaware that her daughter is something she claims to not understand. "Pansexuality, honestly, just sounds Horrible," She had told me. "I don't understand pansexuality and gender-fluid and stuff," She said, The car sliding smoothly over the highway under grey skies. I tried to explain, but I was swamped in Confusion. "Well...there are more than two genders, like being gender-fluid and agendered and bi-gendered and third-gendered...... And pansexual people like all of those genders." "That's what I can't understand. I mean, I kinda get the concept, but..." Her voice trails away like blue cigarette smoke, still deadly even after it has dissipated into the clouds. I feel like I'm choking on it, raw pink lungs tightening and swelling, forcing yellow stars before my eyes, Not able to explain the way I don't care what you identify as, I only care about love. My mother's grandmother didn't know that non-straight people existed. My mother's mother didn't know that bisexual people existed. My mother doesn't believe that more than two genders exist, Or know that I find all of them attractive. But she had already dropped the subject, Instead filling the awkward lull with discussions of Colleges and books she's reading and and what my younger sister is doing in school. I could feel my soul bubbling up behind my lips, Pink and yellow and blue, I wanted to tell her to stop and listen. I wanted to tell her to be quiet, And to be accepting, And to try to understand. I wanted to tell her 'I'm pansexual. There. Now you know. Would you have said that it was horrible and that you can't understand? That, in essence, I am horrible and you can't understand me?' But I didn't. I sat, the warm sticky grey leather under my thighs The same as the warm, sticky grey clouds, The yellow sun just peeking out into blue skies beyond the pale pink dogwoods. She wakes up, warm sticky breath catching in her chest As she opens her eyes. She mumbles quietly about oversleeping Before she rushes out the door, Leaving behind a daughter She thinks she knows, As she claims to not understand My label That I have hidden inside my closet door, Next to my pink, yellow, blue scarves. Maybe tomorrow I'll put it on, Pin my heart to my sleeve, Wear my colors proudly. But not today. Never today.