The Spectrum and the Frame

 

Fourlinegraphia:

We gave you red when you bled into life,

then taught you to hide it, to bow in the dark.

The blood that bore children, the blood of the wife,

we named it a shadow, a stain, and a mark.

We built walls around temples and kitchens and doors,

and called it tradition, and called it divine.

She:

I took back the red that was rightfully mine-

the pulse in my veins, the raw warmth of the bone.

I washed off the shame that was never my own.

Fourlinegraphia:

We gave you white when he slipped from your side,

as if grief were a dress you were destined to wear.

We draped you in silence, we stripped you of pride,

and measured your sorrow by what you must bear.

She:

I folded the white into wide, open space,

not a shroud for a ghost, but a place to begin.

I stepped past the mourning they drew on my face,

and let the fresh light of the morning come in.

Fourlinegraphia:

We painted you green for the children you grew,

celebrated the mother, forgot who you were.

We gave you gold for a smile that stayed true,

a smooth, perfect shell that could never demur.

We gave you black for protection and peace:

Don’t speak like that, don’t wander late, don’t go far.

We built you a cage out of loving decrees,

and called it a safety, and named it a star.

She:

My green grew wild past the garden they planned,

my gold lost its polish, my black became might.

I untied the ropes of each loving command,

and walked without fear through the depth of the night.

Fourlinegraphia:

We gave you blue for your dreams in the sky,

but drew a firm line where the atmosphere ends.

Study, but gently. Work, but don't try

to reach for a height that unravels or bends.

And when grey settled soft in the frost of your hair,

we folded our hands, thinking portrait complete.

She:

I shattered the line where the blue met the air,

and painted my grey as a crown, not defeat.

Fourlinegraphia:

We thought we were masters who painted the scene,

mistaking your silence for peace in the frame.

We never once asked what your colors had been,

or cared if you carried a breath or a name.

She:

So I opened the boxes, the heavy and locked,

and mixed what they gave me with all they denied:

the anger that burned and the freedom that mocked,

the choice and desire I gathered inside.

Fourlinegraphia:

Now the old portrait bleeds as the boundaries break,

and we stand back in silence, unable to speak.

We see what no brush of our own could ever make:

the strength in the soul we assumed was too weak.

She & Fourlinegraphia:

She was never a canvas for others to claim.

She was always the artist.

She was always the flame.

Not a single shade chosen by world or by decree-

She is the whole spectrum, unbounded and free.