It’s the crispness of a just ironed shirt
and the smell of the starch that protects it.
It’s the sound of wood chimes in the breeze.
It’s the color of everything pure.
It’s this flimsy attempt to
expose my shame.
It’s the disappointment of failure
and the failure of feeling cherished.
It’s me failing you.
It’s the transparancy of a heart….
It is everything
and it is nothing.
It is scary.
It is my shaking hands
my trembling legs
my leaden feet.
It is the life which lays on my sleeve,
and the guilt that seems to lay with it.
It’s the color of my face without…
…and the fear of everything with.
It’s the promise of tomorrow.
It’s the threat of today.
It’s the escape from yesterday.
It’s everything pure.
And everything tarnished.
It’s the hurt.
Hurt I caused.
Hurt you feel.
by someone so good.
It’s the silence and how
It’s empty and loaded.
And it’s me.
It’s the drama you might conclude from this,
and the harshness with which you might judge me.
It’s the knowledge that you will read this
And the fact that you know why it’s white
and nobody else does.
It’s innocence and innocence lost.
It’s the dread
is no more.
And it’s the hope
that the white
that has been tarnished by white
will still shine as bright
as you were once sure it could.