With him, I am yellow.

Yellow-bellied scared,
too afraid to tell him
“I love you, but I’m not in love with you.”

Yellow in the face,
because the things he says about the girls across the street
make me sick.

I am yellow as the sun setting
quickly.
If I’m around too long
I’ll burn him.
The sun, setting
to give him a rest
from me.

Yellow
like the bruises he left on me
even though I said
“Don’t, it actually hurts.”

I am the yellow of the dandelions
he mows over in his lawn
because they’re weeds and not flowers somehow.

Yellow
like the bird stuck in the grill of his car.

I am the yellow of the 45-watt light bulbs
in the ceiling of his room
that he hates to have on.

Even when I’m there we’re always sitting in the dark.