I am the red with fire burning through my veins. I am the orange of broken sandstone columns. I am the yellow of forgotten sunny days. I am the green of envy and of bright meadows. I am blue, like still water and hectic storms. I am purple of exclusively royalty wear.  

I am a person created by fragments of expectations and dreams. An identity that doesn’t have language or expression yet still exists. The red is real. The orange is real. The green is real. The blue is real. The purple is real. I am real.  

Touch my skin you would say it’s real. Touch my hair you would say it has properties. Properties of different lenses rotating and combining forever. Can you be anything in this world of chaos?  

Neo-understandings paint colours that only butterflies and the special few can see.  

Sometimes the colours blur together, creating spectrums of new understandings where the intersections of new colours are created. I am its combination, parts and all traces of the light. In blurred hazes, can a name really be a definition? Maybe it’s the parts we don’t see that make a person.  

There is a rainbow embedded in my soul. Only at the right angle can you see it. It exists because there is both rain and sunshine inside of me, and that is who I am. Some may see only the sunshine, others will only see the rain. But all is me. Some colours are forged through pain, others through love.  

How do you explain my world to someone who only believes in greys? Awareness will not give others new eyes or force them to open them. 

Some people even question if the pain is real. Such an individualised and intermate understanding, but people still demand to see it to believe it. You can’t see air, but you’re still alive. You can’t see pain but still ask why. What you can think you see is gender, intelligence, ability and worth. You can also see colour, but a single word can not describe the entire experience of colour. Why do we not embrace the beautiful complexity of the wonders around us? Some people have told me this is being a whimsical child, but I see it as being human. Let me define my emotions, not the world. The parts I like and the parts I don’t care for. But let me be whole.   

Judge me. Tear me down until I am nothing but bare bones in front of a crowd. And then put a blue ribbon on my corpse. My death still being defined by the souls that dammed me to flames.  

You can layer metaphor and alteration on top of each other over and over again, but it never comes close to my experience. Some know too much, others not enough. But do I not have a right to be my reds, oranges, yellows, greens, blues and purples?  

I am both scared and proud of it – what I am.   

Jennifer Lowe

Jennifer Lowe

Jennifer Lowe