I. First Version: Turquoise

If we paint bronze into the earth and water with sunlight, something will grow.

Rooted in earth and soil, I know the taste of minerals. Blue pigment is the sweetest and only bitter if left to its own devices. I love his eyes. The sky reflects his gaze and I know I want my background to be blue. I straighten myself, pulling away from grass as he sets up a canvas.

He smiles

looking at my petals

I wonder if I could hope to be

enough.

From the looks of his grin, I can do more than hope. I’ll shine and follow the sun. I’d follow him to the ends of the earth if it means he would smile. I straighten and he paints my leaves into strength. I tilt my face upward, to catch the sunlight in drops and use it to coat my seeds. I mirror the light in his gaze and hope my petals look particularly glossy. He smiles. I can do more than hope.


 

II. Second Version: Royal-Blue

Can you drown in your own seeds? I’m sowing fatigue into sickles and reaping wilting hearts.

There is such a thing as too much blue but when thirsting after purpose I forget I can drown

 

in melancholy.

I’m sorry!

I did not mean,

I did not want,

to worry anyone.

But sometimes it feels like there is too much water seeping into my roots and I might be ungrateful for choking it back out but it is too much.

 

Too much.

I feel his heaviness,

the way his feet drag in the dirt,

I’m scared he’ll tumble

or stumble.

I don’t have hands to catch him if he does.

My seeds mimic tears when a dot of paint falls onto my face. He apologizes frantically and despite his trembling fingers he gently wipes the tears away.

He’s so gentle

despite his sorrow.

I lean into his hand. I want him to feel my softness and I want him to know that I wonder if I am drowning too.

Sink or swim

he is my sun.





 

III. Third Version: Blue Green

Numb. The blue has dwindled and we stand once more but my thoughts are faded.

I can’t think straight.

I can stand straight.

But my thoughts curve into the intangible.

I am his and he is mine.

I know that much.

His tears sting.

Why do they sting?

Salt is bad for open wounds

but my stem is only faded

not cracked.

Green and blue equate to life.

So why do I feel spent?

If I stand too long

I start to doze off.

I snap awake

when he tries to hum the silence away.

He smiles

but it’s heavier than before.

How can I hope to shine for a sun?


 

IV. Fourth Version: Yellow

We hope so despair does not swallow us.

Swallowing the sun will burn and burn white hot yellow until insides become ashes and tears turn to shards of salt.

What can grow from ashes?

    Surely something

        somewhere

            will grow

But why burn something still growing?

 

Even though I am wilting

    and tired

and droop like a drop of dew searching for footing

my roots struggle to stand and support,

surely something good

can come from wilting flowers and shriveled petals.

Despite the despair freckling my cheeks and lips

surely the seeds of hope will one day

    lead to light.

 

Will I last to see it?

Only if I don’t burn the roots that itch

Only if I don’t let myself sleep

    and sleep

        and sleep

despite the heaviness weighing me down.

 

Someone has to nurture the seeds.

Someone has to be strong.

Someone has to try.

 

Someone has to be enough but

I don’t know how.

A Sunflower greets her sun

Katy Abbe

Katy Abbe is an enthusiastic, God-loving English student who cries when she sees cute puppies and puns like there's no tomorrow. Crafting language into delightful images and embroidering smiles into stars gives her a sense of purpose. Her idol in the literary world is Hans Christian Andersen, and her dream is to care for furry tailed critters as she writes of poisoned apples and how love is the greatest kind of magic that shatters even the cruelest enchantments.
 
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