Yellow and You
Margo is just like her mother. Her beauty is dark and holds all of the world’s secrets. Living in the under eye bags right above her puffed cheeks, that you’d think wouldn’t flatter anybody but Margo holds an endearment so crucial to the alignment of the stars, that even the weariness of her skin and the thickness of her core can illuminate a weary transcendence. Margo can look you in the eyes and know every wound ever stretched upon the porcelain glass that lives in every single body, and then walk away with it as if they were her own. She could take any pain or aching, steal it from you, and weave it into her own flesh. Your tragedy becoming her favorite souvenir, and all at once becoming whole only so she could fall apart yet again.
Canela is like loneliness. The hair on her arms dances lonely, just like she. Her heart beats at a rhythm much too torn. And the mother tongue that lives in her scars is much too deep to be able to translate in either or of her preferences. Canela is like sadness. Drinking an empty glass and expecting it to quench her thirst. Canela is like embarrassment. Hiding in the shadows of her own life. Reveling in the loneliness that was cursed upon her at a much earlier date. Canela is like being homesick and hungry all at once, her legacy.
Yellow is too close to love. She loves everyone that she shouldn’t and holds no other sentiment than longing and an overbearing urge to be with the people she is not allowed to want in the most innocent sense. A man hidden and beyond her years. Who holds too much privilege and knows too much outside of the realms that Yellow holds in her barren belly. Yellow loves and waits and loves and waits. Knowing that what she wants is not written in the stars but in forgotten and forlorned tragedies that have no reality or cruelty to them, but rather wishes of a small and shattered girl that is much too big for the crevices she is trying to mold herself into. Yellow loves a girl. A girl who sings like a blooming February and forgets her kisses like April. Yellow loves a girl she should not love. A girl who is all encompassing. Who is life and an Arizona sky if they ever wished to come down to earth. So Yellow, like the summer solemness that clings on to every letter of the word, drips into a melting pot called unrequitedness and falls asleep to memories and daydreams of a future she can see herself dancing in.
Rosa is the closest thing to agony. She whose hair grips tightly to her skin in fear of departure. She who cries at the sight of scissors and solitude. Rosa is a mid life crisis at twenty years old, fittingly so. And in the most simple sense. Rosa wishes for stronger, thicker hair. Something deeper to stick her roots into. To pull her further away from a generation of light, balding women. Rosa wishes for a full mane to inhabit both herself and a need to dismantle what she may become. And so Rosa waits. Until March, where the sun is blooming. And the veins on her scalp can become vines. Rich and green with flowers in every pore. Rosa waits, for spring is her favorite time of year and brings with it all of the world’s intent in both poetic nonsense and a riveting end.