you grow up with bright colors

so you paint yourself to match.

a girl teaches you how to keep

steady on a moving elephant,

a boy teaches you how to walk 

the tightrope.

your parents think it's amazing,

are proud of the videos, their 

trust in the stillness of your feet

and the net below you. your mom

gives you a cotton candy and your

dad teaches you how to operate

the rides.

years later, your parents decide

that the circus is no longer your

home and uproot you. you settle

down somewhere quiet, somewhere

that makes silence synonymous with

dying and already dead. the circus

was the summer, this town is autumn,

rotting everything in its path. the colors

have faded, the reds dulling and the 

yellows all but dying.

they look at you like your colors

are the brightest thing they've

ever seen - you are the main

attraction. not the bearded lady,

not the clowns, the red of their

painted mouths could never

compare to the red in your cheeks.

not anymore. not ever again.

except, eventually, like everything

this town touches, the attention

begins to die. you have started

to bleed into the town. how are

you supposed to get used to

camouflage when all you've ever

known is the hot pinks and the

electric blues?

you've never watched a sunset

before. you sit on your roof and

feel yourself go down with it.

everything dies eventually.

this town just decides that

eventually is tomorrow.