I used to think of myself
as quite the little fashion designer.
I spent hours poring over sketches:
young women with block-color hair
wearing dresses full of angles,
collars chopped crisp and low
to emulate the girls I’d seen,
the youthful actresses, the older cousins
who I someday hoped to become.
Every face shone bright
unless it was mine, when I drew myself
in baby blue and titled it “Shy Sky”––
that one features a reserved smirk,
and even the exaggerated emerald
I chose for my eyes falls flat,
impassable. It’s hard to imagine
I once thought of myself this way,
misunderstood and tightly self-reined
when really I have always possessed
the multitudinous vibrancy
of a fully-stocked box of pencils.
I have always sashayed and wept,
rainbows, ostentatious and unafraid
to illustrate myself brightly––
and although nervous to document
my full-blast vulnerability,
I’ve remained courageous in the flesh.
Author’s Note: Okay, so maybe I’m misleading you with the title of this post. The entirety of this poem was created on July 8, 2017, because I was a busy bee on July 7. But don’t worry––yours truly will still be providing a full 31 poems this month for you to enjoy.