by Havanah Becker
I open the drawer of my white desk
in my white room in my white house,
which is one of many in my white town.
I am tired of being surrounded by such
I search in my dark drawer until I
pull out my secretly perfect palette,
that everyone tells me to clean,
smeared with colors bleeding
into each other.
I gaze at my white canvas, and when I
reach for the paint,
my finger becomes the brush,
and I, the canvas
to paint, to mark up,
and stain every perfect white thing
with my imperfections.